


Darkest Darks, Lightest Lights

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Akashi Seijuurou Has Mental Health Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Assault, Awkward Boners, Awkward Conversations, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Bullying, Caretaking, Caught, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Emotionally Repressed, Exhibitionism, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Gay Panic, Grinding, Growing Up, Hand & Finger Kink, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Idiots in Love, Internal Conflict, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Midorima Shintarou Has OCD, Misunderstandings, Opposites Attract, Praise Kink, Puberty, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Discovery, Skip To Chapter 29 If You're Here For The Smut, Slow Burn, Social Issues, Takao Kazunari Has ADHD, Takao Swears A Lot, Time Skips, Tsundere Midorima Shintarou, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, f-slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 111,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29317587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "Takao isn't exactly sure when he first realized that he was in love with Midorima. He thinks that he has probably loved him for a lot longer than he's even aware of, that maybe he's always loved him. He still remembers, quite vividly, the moment they first met—when Midorima came rushing out of his house in clothes much nicer than his own, right over to the place where Takao was crying on the pavement." What if Midorima and Takao lived just down the street from each other? What if they grew up together? A look at Midorima and Takao through the years.
Relationships: Midorima Shintarou/Takao Kazunari
Comments: 69
Kudos: 39





	1. Cross My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who supported me through this process -- especially Moon, who went on this adventure with me. It was a long journey but I'm beyond thrilled to finally present you with the finished product. ♥

Takao isn't exactly sure when he first realized that he was in love with Midorima. He thinks that he has probably loved him for a lot longer than he's even aware of, that maybe he's always loved him. He still remembers, quite vividly, the moment they first met—when Midorima came rushing out of his house in clothes much nicer than his own, right over to the place where Takao was crying on the pavement. He had a wide gash across his knee and an angry red rash mottling his palms where they'd taken the brunt of his fall. He had avowed with a pinky promise and a cross over his heart that he didn't need training wheels on his bright orange Vortax bicycle, had recapitulated that he was old enough to his mother over several weeks until she finally conceded and told his father to remove the assisted balance. Training wheels were _for babies_ , and Takao was almost seven years old.

Takao had been speechless for the first time in his life while he watched Midorima crack open a First Aid Kit and pour antiseptic on a patch of gauze. His eyes were the most brilliant shade of green that Takao had ever seen, and without realizing it then, he committed the color to memory. For all the years leading up to the present, he would only ever refer to that particular shade as _Shin-chan green_.

Takao tried not to cry as Midorima wiped the dirt and the gritty particles of asphalt away from his bloodied knee. It had stung, quite a lot, but Takao didn't want the boy with too-big glasses and freckles stippling his nose to think that he was weak. He had sniffled several times but kept most of his internalized trauma at bay while he stared at the green-haired boy, smiling at the fact that the tip of his tongue poked out between his lips as he worked.

After several moments of silence, Takao had started to wonder whether the boy could talk, and as though he could read his mind he chose that moment to say: “You should be more careful,” as he thoroughly debated between two different band-aids before plastering the bigger of the two over Takao's surprisingly minor injury. ( _There was so much blood!)_ Takao watched him with a sense of keen fascination and when Midorima drew his hand away from his knee, Takao carefully traced his finger over the patch of latex and fabric.

“I don't think you should ride that home,” Midorima said to him, pushing up his glasses and dusting off his hands on his clean trousers. “Not unless you want to get hurt again.” He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the First Aid Kit off of the ground. He stared at it for a moment, wearing an expression like his mother wears when she's thinking really hard about something, then he decidedly thrust the box in Takao's direction. “I think you should take this with you.”

Takao absentmindedly took the offered kit, unaware of how badly his fingers were still shaking from his accident. He wet his lips and stared up at Midorima from his place on the ground. He realized then that he hadn't spoken a word since he'd hit the golf-ball-sized rock that sent him flying off of his bike.

Midorima turned around and started to make his way back up to the long stretch of sidewalk that led to his house and Takao's heart hammered wildly in his chest. It wasn't a new feeling, he'd experienced it many times before actually, but only when he was scared. He didn't understand it but it was enough to push him to his feet and call after the strange boy.

“Wait! What's your name?” Takao shouted, his voice shaking somewhere in the middle of the question and sounding unfamiliar to his ears.

For a brief, anxiety-filled moment, the boy kept walking as if he didn't care to tell Takao what he wanted to know. His heart had started to sink in his chest but then the sun caught on the square lenses of his glasses, and Takao realized that he'd turned around to look at him.

“Midorima Shintarō,” he said, perhaps a bit too arrogantly for a boy who appeared to be around his same age, but Takao didn't care. He smiled brightly and clutched at the medical kit in his hands until his knuckles turned white.

“I'm Takao Kazunari! Thanks for patching me up, Shin-chan! I'll see ya around!” He waved at the other boy, whose name would now be forever illuminated inside of his mind like the neon lights that lit up downtown at night.

Midorima had sighed then and needlessly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Please don't come back here, and don't call me Shin-chan.” Then he turned on his heel and continued on his intended trajectory, unaware— _or perhaps not caring_ —that Takao's unblinking gaze was trained on his back until he disappeared behind the front door of his sizable home.

Takao had felt a twinge of disappointment when Midorima faded from his line of sight but he picked up his bike with one hand, his other still clutched on the First Aid Kit, and started in the direction of his own home. All the while, wondering why the boy who had an unusually acute sense of fashion for someone his age had a yellow polka-dotted scarf hanging out of his back pocket.

But what Takao had honestly been thinking—he knows now—was how he was going to come up with an excuse to see Midorima again.


	2. Into The Sun

Takao didn't see Midorima for two weeks after his spill.

He spent every day talking about Midorima to anyone who would listen like he was a member of the Ultra Crusaders or the Kamen Riders and he'd saved Takao from being eaten by an alien entity. And to Takao, Midorima was in the same class as the superheroes he'd read about—no, he was _superior_ to those superheroes because he was _real_ and he lived just down the street from Takao's two-story apartment building—and he had saved him.

Not wanting to embarrass himself in front of the only person he wanted to impress, Takao practiced riding his bike around his complex until he nailed his balance perfectly. He had dropped his bike on its left handlebar, something he was told to stop doing a million times, and made a beeline straight to his mother to brag about his achievement. He told her that he was going to go straight to Midorima's house ( _no, not to show off_ ) as she pushed his fast-growing bangs out of his eyes.

His mother, always supportive of him, had frowned then and Takao felt something lance through his heart in the shape of pain. He looked up at her with eyes a brighter blue than they are nowadays, and whatever burden had shown up in her gaze melted into warmth. She smiled down at him and told him he could go but to remember that there are different kinds of people in the world and that some people didn't want to mix with others, no matter how unfair it seemed. He didn't know what it meant then, but he nodded and smiled and squeezed her around the middle until his arms ached from the effort.

He had ridden his bike proudly that day, with an air of confidence that would carry over into his teenage years. The wind tore through his hair like invisible strings and the clouds that hung in the sky looked like paper wings. The sun had been warm and bright on his body, bruised in several places because Takao was the kind of kid who would repeat the same mistake until he wore the damage on his skin.

He reached Midorima's house in no time at all, his head in the fluffy clouds and his eyes watering from staring just below the orange glow of the sun. There was no language for the way that he felt when he skidded to a stop in front of the fresh concrete that led up to Midorima's front door. His heart had drummed wildly in his chest, thundering in his ears like the sound of galloping horses running through his favorite westerns.

He let his bike fall to the ground— _There's a kickstand for that!_ his mother would say—and nervously made his way up to Midorima's front porch. He rapped on the door with his tiny knuckles until it swung open and a polite woman stood framed in the center of the rich wood.

“Can I help you?” she asked, wearing a smile that didn't quite touch Takao's heart the way his mother's smiles did. It made his anxiety spike and he couldn't make sense of it. He was such an outgoing child: warm, approachable, and demonstrative. He was the kind of kid who would be the first to take the plunge even if the water was too cold, and the last to close his eyes at the sight of blood when it began to cover too much of the television screen. (Granted, he only ever watched westerns with his parents and his little sister, but his parents didn't count.)

At that moment, however, Takao felt withdrawn and shy. It felt like the words that usually poured past his lips, sometimes too loudly, were cemented to the roof of his mouth like the candy that stuck to his teeth. He was usually praised for looking adults in the eye but he couldn't bring himself to look at this woman. He lowered his head, instead, and fiddled with the hem of his tattered sweatshirt as he asked, almost silently, “Is Shin-chan home?”

Her answer was almost immediate but Takao felt like every second that passed between them was capable of stealing the breath in his lungs. He hiccuped once and almost missed what she said entirely.

“I'm sorry, young man. Shintarō is occupied right now.” She must have seen his expression falter because when she spoke again, her voice warmed slightly and a small piece of her innate professionalism was chipped away by the look of defeat in Takao's eyes. “He's in a piano lesson.”

“Can he come out to play when he's done?” Takao asked, optimistic, and losing the edge of his nervousness.

“I'm sorry,” she repeated, frowning almost as his mother had. “Shintarō is a very busy young man. He has to keep a tight schedule.” She reached out, almost as if she wanted to ruffle his hair but immediately drew her hand back. “It would be best if you took your leave now.”

Takao swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and fought against the prickle of tears that threatened to spill over his long, dark lashes. He nodded, turned his gaze back toward the ground, and started in the direction of his bike.

“What was your name? You didn't say,” the woman called, her voice under the tight restraint of sophistication but loud enough for Takao to hear over the light breeze.

“Takao,” he yelled over his shoulder, unable to hide the fact that she'd inadvertently taken the wind out of his sails.

He hurried to his bike before his tears could slide down his cheeks and rode home like he was trying to outrun the sun that warmed his back. When he looked up at the sky, the billowy clouds that blemished the blue ceiling, variegated with whites and pinks, no longer looked like pleasant shapes and instead hung like gallows.

He thinks it's ridiculous now, how one little thing had almost destroyed his future with Midorima. But he was a kid and what his mother had said before he left home resonated with him, left him with an awful feeling of hopelessness. However, the woman who'd answered the door that day wanted Midorima to know what friendship meant as badly as his parents wanted to keep him from knowing what existed beyond the walls of their luxurious custom-built condominium.

Takao wishes now that he could thank her but Midorima told him of her death nearly four years ago. He can only hope that she knows what she did by telling Midorima that he had stopped by looking for him that day—the same day that would shift into a chilly night with Takao believing that the stars Midorima hung in the sky slipped a little.

He laughs against the quiet of his room, wondering how as such a bright and positive child he managed such a fatalistic way of thinking. Furthermore, it's much easier to laugh about his childhood than think about how much it would hurt if Midorima were to leave him now.

He's still the only thing he thinks about after all these years. The only difference is that he can no longer hide behind his youthful indiscretions and whimsical inclinations. That, and he knows that Midorima isn't the one responsible for the myriad stars in the sky. Now, Midorima strums ballads to the moon on his adolescent nerves. 


	3. Out Of The Rain

It rained for three days straight after Takao was told that he couldn't play with Midorima and he thought that just maybe the sky could feel his pain—that maybe it was weeping for him when he told himself that he was above crying over losing his chance at getting to know his hero.

His mother tried to raise his spirits with puzzles and movies and card games but Takao felt too forlorn to play. The weather outside did little to wash away his downheartedness, and by the time there was a glimmer of hope, Takao was too tired from not sleeping that he didn't pay it any mind.

When he woke on the fourth day, the sun was breaking through the leaves in the trees and Takao felt like he could breathe again. He looked through the dusty glass of his bedroom window, blinking hard against the bright rays that he had fully convinced himself he wouldn't see again. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and ran his hands through his unkempt hair—calling it bedhead would do it an injustice at this point.

He looked down at the small garden that the apartment's green thumbs collectively created last spring and frowned. He remembered when he picked a flower and how it felt when he watched it die in his hands. Takao had cried then, too, and when he asked his mother why he cried so often and if he was what the neighbor boys called him—a _wimp_ and a _sissy_ —she smiled at him and shook her head. She told him that he was empathetic and compassionate and that being sensitive wasn't the same as being weak. She taught him about bullies and cowards that day, explaining that they were the true softies because they built themselves up by making others feel bad about who they are.

Takao didn't completely understand it at first but when his mother added that the best way to handle a bully was to ignore them since they feed off of negative energy, the cogs in his mind began to process her point. It hit home when she told him that they thrived on others being sad, and _You wouldn't willfully give a goat a button to chew on knowing that you wouldn't get it back, would you?_ With that, Takao had firsthand experience, and no he would not, thank you very much.

Takao felt better after that. So much so that when Shōgo and his older brother called him names and scratched up his tiny arms, he felt a sense of understanding and pride. He even started wearing the red headband his little sister had given him to keep his messy bangs in place outside of the apartment. If showing his emotion to those who wanted to hurt him meant giving them a part of himself, then he would do everything in his power to stand tall and brush them off when they tried to hurt him.

That's around the time when they had called him a faggot and Shōgo's brother sprayed him with the garden hose, soaking him with ice-cold water head to toe. Takao stormed back into his apartment building (when the doors were still unlocked during daytime) and stomped his feet until he was standing in front of his father to ask him what _that_ word meant. His father furrowed his brow and ruffled the newspaper that was clenched too tightly in his hands. He told Takao to dry off first and they would talk about it when he wasn't dripping water all over the kitchen tile.

Years later, Takao would come to understand that his father was biding his time, praying that his mother would get back from buying groceries before he'd have to handle this particular conversation. Not because he was too awkward to discuss such things with his son (despite having two left feet and all the gracelessness of a panda bear), he just knew that his wife had a way with words and wouldn't leave Takao with more questions than he started with.

Takao laid out a fresh set of clothes and toweled the water off of his skin, anger running rampant through his veins for reasons he couldn't quite discern. He had forgotten to close his bedroom door in his riled state, so after his sister waddled past his room, calling out _butt_ proudly as he pulled up his pants, he hastily finished getting dressed and practically legged it back to his father.

His mother had not yet returned so his father smoothed the wrinkled newspaper out across the dining table and exhaled a winded sigh. He told Takao the meaning of the word in the most delicate way possible, all while informing him that he was not to repeat it because it was disrespectful. Takao had stared at him for a long moment then, chewing on his bottom lip and blinking a stray droplet of water out of his eye.

“But I _do_ like a boy,” he told his father as he shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe they're just jealous that they're not fa—gays. Mama says that boys like them just want what other people have 'cause they're unhappy. Anyway, I'm going back out to play. Nakamura and I are gonna play tag.” He smiled without his cheeks flushing like they would when he would later meet Midorima and whispered behind his hand _he's the boy I like_ before running out of the house.

_If only he knew what it truly meant to like a boy._

Takao stared at the garden until his eyes blurred from not blinking. He wet his still-dry lips from his previous night's sleep and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. His stomach rumbled loudly and he realized that he was in desperate need of the sugary cereal that awaited him in the kitchen. He started to turn away from the window when something caught his eye, a shade of green that didn't belong to the trees or the grass or the garden that his mother and sister helped create.

Takao raced out of his room and ignored his family's synchronous discord and cries of good morning. He flung open the door to their apartment and took the stairs leading to the first floor two and three at a time, his heart hammering in his chest and his lungs burning from the rate of his breathing. When he finally rushed outside and into the bright sun, he exhaled a breath of relief, afraid that his eyes had deceived him. There, standing in the center of the sidewalk stood the boy he had dreamed about since the day he patched up his bloodied knee.

“Hi!” he called out to him, a bit too loudly. The sound of his voice made Midorima flinch involuntarily and push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Hello,” Midorima answered calmly. “I came to...apologize for...” He trailed off then as if he didn't know what to say and Takao couldn't imagine Midorima being in a position where he couldn't parse through his thoughts. Sure, he didn't know him that well yet but Midorima just _looked_ smart.

“You don't have to ap-apologize, Shin-chan!” Takao stammered as he closed the distance between them. “I'm just happy that you came here to see me. Wait, how did you know where I lived? Did you talk to my Mom?” The purr of the consonant stays on his tongue as Takao drops the last two letters of the phonetic alphabet he's used to speaking when referring to his mother. He doesn't want Midorima thinking that he's a mama's boy—he _most definitely is not...mostly._

“I looked you up in the phone directory,” Midorima answered, and if Takao were paying more attention he might have noticed that there was a hint of distortion in his answer, but he couldn't care less because Midorima was finally standing in front of him and they could now be friends.

“Oh, okay! So what do you have there?” Takao asked, nodding at the white paper bag in Midorima's hand. “Did you bring something to play with? I collect trading cards! Do you want to see my collection? I've got tons!”

Midorima looked harassed before shaking his head and presenting the bag to Takao. “It's for you. Our housemaid made them fresh this morning. Those are melon pan, I hope you don't mind. I personally prefer _anpan_.” Midorima looked a bit too proud as Takao took the bag and peered inside. The sweet smell that caught in the breeze made Takao's stomach rumble loudly once again.

“Thanks, Shin-chan! You're the best!” Takao beamed and held the bag tightly in his hand, reminiscent of when Midorima gave him the First Aid Kit. He thought to ask him about his housemaid since Takao heard that it's been decades since anyone last had one but he decided against it. “So um, do you want to come in while I eat these or...” Takao shuffled his foot against the pavement, suddenly feeling sheepish.

“I should get going. I have my studies,” Midorima confessed, a small glimmer of disappointment flashing behind the shining lines of his glasses. He made to turn around and then pursed his lips before he spoke again. “I don't think you should come to my house again.”

Takao felt the thorns of defeat slice into his skin once again but he kept his head held high and retained the smile on his lips despite the frown that begged to tug them down. “You can study here! My parents won't mind! I mean, if I can't go to your house then you'll just have to come to mine.”

Midorima furrowed his brow and stared at Takao like he was something out of a sci-fi movie. “I don't know why you want to hang out with me so bad. I'm not that fun, I promise.” He pushed up his glasses again and Takao wondered if Midorima had some kind of— _what did his father call it?_ —a tic? Takao didn't think that was exactly right but it would have to do because his mind was too full of the things he wanted to tell Midorima to think about anything else.

Takao didn't know why he chose that moment to act but it seemed like the best thing to do while Midorima was still staring at him like a strange bug. He ran his hands up and down his arms, drawing attention to the deep red scratches that lined his skin like the stripes on his mother's favorite tablecloth.

“Have you been cleaning those properly?” Midorima asked, and Takao had to fight the urge to pump his fist into the air. _One point for Kazunari!_

“They're clean!” Takao said, feigning offense. “I'm not _dirty_ , Shin-chan. I bathe every day and I even brush my teeth most nights.”

Midorima wrinkled his nose and the dig of his mouth pulled into a frown. “That's disgusting. You should brush your teeth _at least_ twice a day.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” –Takao pointed at Midorima and narrowed his eyes– “but only if you promise to play with me.”

Midorima exhaled an exaggerated sigh and walked past Takao. “Only for a little while. Do you still have the medical kit I gave you?”

“Sure do!” Takao replied, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I haven't had to use it either! I'm a real pro now. I'm even gonna ask for one of those really cool Kuwahara bikes for my next birthday.” He hurried to catch up with Midorima—the green-haired boy's stride equaled at least two of his own. “I'll even get one of those bars that go through the back wheels, you know, that people can stand on? We can ride double then!”

“No thank you. I prefer more traditional ways of travel,” Midorima told him stuffily. “I also don't think that's a good idea. You're too small for those kinds of bikes, not to mention how much damage you could cause to your body if you crashed.”

“I'm not _small_ ,” Takao countered, slightly offended this time. “I'll show you, Shin-chan. I'll be great one day, you just wait and see!”

“I don't care what you decide to do as long as you keep me out of it.” He looked over at Takao, his eyes slanting downwards to look at the shorter boy. “Besides, I can't take you seriously when you're outside in your pajamas and you haven't even combed your hair yet.”

“I'm getting to it!” Takao huffed, pulling on the apartment's entry door only to find it locked. “Uh-oh.”

“You don't have your own key?”

“I do,” Takao lied. “I just didn't think to bring it out with me.” Then without any precursor or warning, Takao shouted for his mother as loud as his throat could manage without damaging his vocal cords.

Midorima blanched and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did I get myself into?”

_Oh, Shin-chan, if only you had known then—would you have stayed?_


	4. Where Dirt and Water Collide

To Takao, it seemed as though it took longer to get Midorima convinced enough to come into his apartment than the time it took to eat the pastries the other boy brought him, change his clothes, and brush his hair—and by convincing Midorima, Takao had to push him bodily through the door after he whined through a list of promises for so long that Midorima conceded out of sheer irritation.

But Takao hadn't cared how he had gotten Midorima into his apartment, only that he was finally _there_. Midorima was stiff around his parents but mannerly and polite to a degree that Takao marveled at. He had wrinkled his nose at his sister's _natto_ breakfast bowl and gone pale when his father said: “So this is the young man we've heard so much about. Nice to finally meet you!” His knees had visibly weakened when his father clapped a hand on his shoulder but for some reason, Takao didn't think it had anything to do with its physical weight.

Having noted Midorima's discomfort, Takao wrapped his arms around his mother's waist and asked her if they could go play in the park. It was a short distance from their apartment building, a quick cut through the trees that complemented the south side of the tiny parking lot.

She agreed and Takao heard his father say something about Takao never asking _him_ for permission as he grabbed Midorima's wrist and tugged him out of the apartment. He hadn't sounded angry, in fact, it almost sounded like he was pouting, and Takao couldn't help but smile at the image.

Midorima discreetly tugged his wrist out of Takao's firm grip and rubbed his skin as if his touch had hurt him. Takao thought about apologizing but Midorima was the one who broke the silence first.

“It's nice. The relationship you have with your parents. I can't imagine being so...carefree around mine,” Midorima said, choosing his words carefully. Then his eyes went wide and he looked at Takao with a panicked expression before pushing up his glasses. “You won't tell anyone, will you?”

Takao furrowed his brow as he led the way to the back of the building. “Tell them what?” he asked, grinning cheerfully. The sun bounced off of the enamel on his teeth, making them appear even whiter than they were, and Takao missed the small hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of Midorima's lips.

“Thank you,” he said, following close behind Takao and into the thicket of trees that gathered near the asphalt edges of the parking lot.

“Sure thing, Shin-chan!” Takao saluted Midorima, then turned back around to push a low hanging branch out of his path. “So have you ever been to this park before? I once found a colon of bunnies here!”

Takao heard Midorima's soft chuckle behind him as they spilled out of the earthly shadows and into the warm glow of sunlight. Takao didn't know why he was laughing but he was one-hundred percent sure that he wanted to hear that sound again.

“That's... You mean a colony,” Midorima corrected, brushing a small cluster of leaves and tree debris out of his hair.

“That's what I _said_!” Takao turned around and bounced on the balls of his feet, practically buzzing with electricity.

“No...no, it's not,” Midorima said but he must have decided it was best not to dwell on the fact. “I've never been here before. I have allergies and I have to be mindful not to get dirty. I'm not even supposed to play with other children.”

Takao frowned at that and shook his head, a soft pout on his sticky lips. “Why not? Is that why you carry that?” Takao pointed at the inhaler tucked in the front pocket of Midorima's freshly pressed shirt.

Midorima nodded once and scanned the park before cautiously leaning against a nearby picnic table. “I have more important things to do than waste time playing. I have free time, which is now, but I should be playing at home and not here.” Midorima lowered his head as if he were ashamed. “I'm scared to be here,” he admitted softly.

Takao frowned and placed a hand on Midorima's forearm. “You don't have to be scared, Shin-chan! I won't tell a single person that you came here. It'll be our secret!” Takao beamed at the thought of sharing a secret with Midorima, especially one this big and important. “I'll always protect you. Pinky promise,” Takao said, holding out his shortest finger as he waited for Midorima to take it.

“Just don't sing,” Midorima said and quickly hooked his own pinky finger around Takao's.

“But I'm a good singer! Mama told me so!” Takao said, forgetting to revise his mother's moniker for the sake of _being cool_ in Midorima's eyes.

“I'll take your word for it.” Midorima tugged his finger away from Takao's own and wiped his hands down the front of his pants.

“Why do you do that?” Takao blurted, his eyes tracking the motion of Midorima's hands.

Midorima lifted his shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug. “I don't know. My parents say that I've got a mental disorder called OCD. It's where...”

“Wait! Do you like card games too? I have a friend who likes them almost as much as I do but he doesn't play them with me a lot because he doesn't like to travel with his cards.” Takao jumped up and down several times in a demonstration of his excitement, his eyes glittering like the night sky.

Midorima looked pained. “No. That's OCG and that's not a mental disorder.” He sighed pointedly and pressed his hands in against the edge of the picnic table before drawing them away as if he'd been burned. “What I have is...” He paused for a moment, thinking about how to tell this boy who clearly didn't know as much about science and medicine as he did about his disorder. “I'm afraid of germs,” he said finally.

“Germs? But I'm not a germ...” Takao trailed off while producing an image that he was thinking so hard that it was physically hurting him.

“No, but you're covered in germs. You licked the sugar off of your fingers at breakfast and you opened your apartment door with your bare hands. Do you know how many germs live on human skin? I wouldn't _ever_ put my hands in my mouth. And I _definitely_ wouldn't open a door that a hundred people touch every day without a cloth or something to cover my hand with.”

Takao laughed and shook his head. “You're funny, Shin-chan. I don't know a lot about germs but I do know how to swing higher than all of my friends.” He turned around and began racing toward a set of swings but stopped when he realized that Midorima wasn't following him.

“Well, aren't you coming?”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how filthy those things are? No way!” Midorima said, shaking his head in a gesture of dissent.

“Come on, Shin-chan! It won't kill ya! It's fun,” Takao pleaded in a way that he hoped would be enough to convince the green-haired boy to join him.

“Nope,” Midorima said with a terse shake of the head. “I'm staying right here.”

Takao looked at the pair of swings, then back to Midorima, ultimately deciding that spending time with Midorima was more important than spending time on the playground he could visit whenever he wanted.

“Fine. I'll hang out with you but you're a real stick-in-the-mud, Shin-chan. What do you even do for fun if you don't collect trading cards or play in parks?” Takao jumped up on the picnic table and plopped down against the wood, crossing his legs and leaning back on the palms of his hands.

“I like to play shogi and listen to classical music. Right now I really like Takemitsu. Have you ever listened to him?” Midorima's glasses caught in the sun, turned reflective, and Takao immediately blinked against the glare that threatened to dot his gaze.

“No way! I like rock music!” Takao spouted a strange mix of noises while moving his fingers like he was playing guitar, much to Midorima's dismay.

“Please stop that,” Midorima demanded and pushed away from the table. “Do you like to play shogi?”

Takao giggled and scratched at a spot next to the line of his scalp. “I don't know how to play but even if I did... I don't like any of that smart stuff. I think it's boring.”

Midorima released a puff of air and narrowed his eyes. “I don't think it's boring.”

“That's because you're smart, Shin-chan. I've never met a kid as smart as you!”

Midorima looked trapped between a sluice of surprise and a gutter of gratification but he didn't argue so Takao responded with a grin as bright as the gold star stamped across the front of his chest.

Suddenly, Takao scooted forward, mindful of the table's potential splinters— _he'd gotten on the bad side of those babies befor_ e—and ran his finger over the pin fastened to the front of Midorima's shirt. “I thought only old ladies wore these. I mean, I like it and I've never seen old ladies wear pictures of frogs but...wait do you like frogs because your hair is green?”

“You're too excitable,” Midorima said, briefly struggling over the tail-end of his sentence as if it didn't sit right in his mouth. “It's my lucky item for today. I always keep it on me.”

“Lucky item?” At that moment, a purr of thunder rumbled in the distance and water droplets started to fall from a dark cloud above their heads. “Uh-oh. I guess we should get home. I mean... I should go home. But I'd like it if you came with me!”

“I should probably head back to my house. My parents won't be happy if I don't finish all of my tasks.” Midorima absentmindedly ran his fingers over the glossy green frog sitting near the line of his collarbone.

There was a second rumble of thunder and the sun disappeared behind another dark cloud. Then, as if all of the celestial beings in the cosmos began to sob simultaneously, rain fell from the overcast sky in a deluge, and Takao was soaked to the bone in a matter of seconds. He grabbed Midorima's hand without thinking and ran straight for the trees they'd traveled through earlier.

Takao was pleased to see his mother standing at the main entrance, waiting for them to return. She quickly opened the door and Takao was more than grateful not to have to explain to Midorima that he'd forgotten to procure the key, _again_. Furthermore, she came prepared with two towels for them to wipe themselves down with.

Midorima muttered a diffident _Thanks_ and seemed to forget all about holding Takao's hand until he moved to towel himself as dry as he could with his clothes sticking to him like a second skin.

Takao convinced Midorima to come back to his apartment until the rain stopped, with the help of his mother's promise to dry Midorima's clothes straight away.

“That lucky frog wasn't so lucky, huh?” Takao teased, blinking through the dark strands of hair that had flattened against his forehead. He currently stood in the center of the bathroom next to Midorima, gooseflesh mottling his arms as he desperately fought his body's want to shiver because _that wasn't macho at all._

“Luck has nothing to do with the effects of nature,” Midorima countered hotly. Then after a brief moment, he looked at Takao and said, “I haven't forgotten.”

Takao's mother returned with two clean sets of clothes, one for each of the boys, and offered to make hot chocolate. Midorima politely declined but asked if she had green tea instead, to which she nodded and smiled before leaving them to change.

“You _are_ an old lady!” Takao needled, laughing. He tugged his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor with a wet _plop_. “Oh, what didn't you forget?”

“Your arms,” Midorima said, ignoring Takao's previous jab. “I still need to clean those scratches.”

“Oh...right,” Takao said, giggling for no discernible reason. Takao continued getting undressed and it wasn't until he was donning his warm, dry clothing that he realized Midorima hadn't moved to change at all.

“Are you gonna just stand there and freeze to death?” Takao asked, his brow furrowed and wrinkled deeply despite having youthful skin on his side.

“I like to get dressed in private,” Midorima told him, lip trembling with cold.

“Then just tell me, Shin-chan,” Takao said, drawing out Midorima's epithet into a gentle lilt. “Come to my room when you're done! I'll get out the kit! You remember where it is, right? My room?”

Midorima rolled his eyes as he carefully removed the frog pin from his shirt. “I'm not an idiot. Of course, I remember.”

Takao shrugged his shoulders but something about Midorima remembering what room he'd moved in and out of earlier made him feel happy. Takao could physically enter a room any number of times and still forget its location.

His heart felt warm and full when he entered his bedroom, and maybe it had something to do with the shift in his body temperature but Takao didn't think so. He reached under his bed and pulled out the First Aid Kit, his fingers tracing the characters on its lid. After the clock on his wall ticked exactly 194 times, without Takao's knowledge— _he wasn't that perceptive_ —he could hear the bathroom door open down the hall.

His heart suddenly skipped a beat and for the first time in his life, Takao was nervous to have someone new enter his room.


	5. Day and Night

Takao can no longer imagine a time when having Midorima in his room was cause for concern. He thinks back to that first time, when his palms had been sweaty and his heart had thumped so hard he was sure it was going to beat out of his chest. Presently, however, he can laugh about it because he's been hanging out with Midorima for years now.

It took a while to get Midorima to warm up to him but once he did, the world righted itself on its axis and their friendship took off like a spark pitched against dry brush.

Midorima had drawn up several charts and written many notes on why he would benefit from transferring to a public school. He promised that he would continue to attend his private extracurricular study school on the assigned evenings and weekends and that he would continue to accredit his parents' given tasks at home. After a week-long wait, to his surprise— _and Takao's_ —they agreed to let Midorima put his plan to practice. He was given two weeks to prove himself academically, and Takao found himself irritated by this because even _he_ knew Midorima would have no problem proving himself successful. As expected, Midorima made well on his promises and demonstrated his educational excellence without fail.

Midorima's parents still weren't keen on the idea of them spending time together. On most occasions, Midorima had to pretend that he was helping tutor Takao, even though his grades were pretty average except for English, in which he excelled the most.

“Your parents should believe in you more. I could see if you screwed around and had bad grades or something but you don't,” Takao said to Midorima one evening. He was sprawled across his bed, red headband tucked in his messy hair and papers strewn in disorganized chaos in front of him.

“Akashingō, Takao,” Midorima warned, stretching his legs out on the floor and leaning further back against Takao's new twin bed. It was something he usually said when he didn't like Takao's use of crude language or he was broaching a topic Midorima didn't want to discuss. “My parents believe in me. That's why they want what's best for me.”

Takao (now ten years old) rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Is that why you won't tell them that you transferred schools to spend more time with me?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Midorima huffed and scribbled something down on his notepad with more pressure than strictly necessary. “I transferred schools to better my education and immerse myself in an environment better suited to my future goals.”

“Do you even _want_ to be a doctor, Shin-chan?” Takao drawled. He rolled over again, the papers on his bed crinkling under his weight. He draped an arm over Midorima's shoulder and peered down at his neatly scrawled notes. “Or are you just planning on doing what your _parents_ want you to do?”

Midorima hesitated for a brief moment, then closed his social studies book with a sharp snap. “I will do whatever fate decides for me, but until then, I plan to earn high marks and lay the groundwork for whatever possible future awaits me.”

Takao picked up his pencil and tapped the eraser-end against the top of Midorima's head. “Okay, Mr. Sophistication. You could just as easily have said: _I don't know yet_ ,” Takao parodied, in a near-perfect imitation of Midorima's cool and even tone.

“And lower myself to your mediocre level? No, thank you. Besides,” –Midorima exhaled a long sigh– “I mean it. I want to be prepared. If I work hard now, then I will be able to expedite my studies in...”

“ _The future_ ,” Takao mimicked. “Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

The corner of Midorima's mouth quirked into the barest hint of a smile. “I was going to say the time to come.”

“No, you weren't!” Takao shouted through a rumble of amusement.

“Yes, I was!” Midorima countered, trying hard not to join in Takao's infectious gales of laughter. “Day and night, Takao. We're day and night.”

Takao knew that it was Midorima's way of saying that they were different but he didn't care. It was good that they stood on opposite ends of the spectrum. It was what helped them get along in all the ways the other kids weren't capable, in manners that they couldn't understand or weren't compatible with Midorima, Takao was there to fill the gaps.

“Who's who?” Takao asked him, absentmindedly running his fingers over the fuzzy edges of Midorima's dark blue sweater.

“Hmm?” Midorima hummed while he looked down at his newly opened science book.

“ _Who's who_? You said day and night, but which of us is what or whom or... _ugh_...” Takao propped himself up on a wobbly elbow and scratched his calf with a socked foot.

Midorima didn't answer him immediately and Takao had reason to believe—if the past was anything to go by—that this was Midorima's unspoken way of telling him that it didn't matter or that it was an allegory that didn't need explaining. Then Midorima leaned his head back against Takao's mattress and said, “I've always felt at one with the moon and the stars. I guess that means that I'm night and you're day...” He trailed off for a moment and nibbled on his bottom lip, something that he never did unless he was deep in thought. “I think that's fitting for you. You're like the sun.” At that moment, Midorima's cheeks reddened and he looked back down at his textbook to distract himself like he did whenever he said something he felt was embarrassing or too heartfelt.

But that was always a mistake because Takao's favorite pastime was picking on Midorima, and that hadn't changed. Takao pushed himself into an upright position and wrapped his arms around Midorima's shoulders in a positionally awkward hug. “You know, Shin-chan, I've heard that days and nights can coexist beautifully. I guess that means we're not so different, after all.”

“Takao, I take it back. You're nothing like the day and you're certainly not like the sun. You're a boil on a sedentary white-mustached pig's bottom.”

Takao gasped and held his hand over the thrum of his heart, which beat steadily through the thin layer of his favorite T-shirt, in mock endearment. “Shin-chan, I'm touched! That's the most thought-out and sweetest thing you've ever said to me!” Then he leaned forward until his lips were near the shell of Midorima's ear and whispered: “I think I'm rubbing off on you.”

“If that ever happens, I want you to kill me,” Midorima deadpanned. He turned the page of his textbook and Takao decided that there would be no better time to put the screws to Midorima's growing agitation. He slid his fingers through Midorima's hair, knowing how long the green-haired boy spent combing it each morning and ruffled it between his fingers.

Midorima calmly closed the book resting in his lap and cleared his throat. “Change of plans. I'm going to kill you.”

“You'll have to catch me first,” Takao said, jumping off of his bed and racing out into the hall. “Ah, but you won't because that kind of childish behavior isn't in Shin-chan's repertoire.”

“Don't use words you don't know the meaning of, Takao,” Midorima scolded as he climbed to his feet and dusted the invisible dirt off of the front of his sweater. “I'm going home now.”

“ _Whatever_ ,” Takao groaned and rolled his eyes. “And no, you're not. You're staying for dinner.” He began to make his way down the hall, smiling when he heard one of Midorima's trademark noises of displeasure.

“I am not,” Midorima argued as he made himself visible in the narrow frame of the hallway lined with family pictures and artificial foliage.

Takao spun around and faced him directly, a knowing grin on his lips. “Then why don't you have any of your stuff? I know you wouldn't leave without your precious schoolbooks and all of that homework I could so easily copy.”

Midorima faltered for a moment. “I'm going to use the restroom first.”

“Give up the goat, Shin-chan!” Takao called as he started back on his original trajectory.

Midorima exhaled a long, winded sigh as he followed Takao, shaking his head. “How are you this uncultured?”

“Have you met my parents?”

“Yes, I have. Therefore, the answer remains to be seen. Your parents are civilized and refined, albeit much more relaxed than my own, they still act like sophisticated people. You, on the other hand,” Midorima stilled his comment when he heard the distinct crinkle of a chip bag. “Why must you always eat before dinner?”

“I'm hungry,” Takao said with a shrug, and Midorima moved behind him to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. “Want one?” Takao offered, holding the bag out to Midorima as he passed by him for a second time.

“Absolutely not,” Midorima answered, discreetly grabbing a single chip out of the bag before he exited the kitchen.

Takao smiled as he watched Midorima settle in against the couch, sitting more rigidly than any one person needs to when positioned on furniture meant to provide _comfort_. Nevertheless, it was evocative of all things Midorima—a little peculiar, a little eccentric, but plain to see that he belonged among the branches that extended from the roots of a genteel family tree.

Takao didn't know much about botany but he believed that Midorima's tropological leaves were wrapped around his heart tighter than ever before. He couldn't rend them from his soul if he tried—not that the thought ever entered his mind—but he couldn't be happier that Midorima didn't uproot him from his life when things had yet to blossom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *akashingō - red light


	6. The Cold and Its Stars

Takao can't pick a favorite season because Midorima emulates each equinox as if he belongs in the shift of every frame. He dons cherry blossoms in the spring and though they might clash with his verdant strands, he wears them well, so much so that Takao forgets to brush them away sometimes. His skin burns too easily in the summer but he looks happy with ice cream on his lips and water on his skin—it might not be obvious, but Takao has long since learned when Midorima is at his happiest even when bereft of the rare telltale expression. In the autumn, Midorima shivers through the slightest chill and collects the leaves that fall from the trees to press into paper sleeves. But in the winter, he collects snowflakes on his long lashes and wears the gray scarf that Takao bought for him for the New Year.

Takao spent every year since his seventh birthday taking the long way home. It was the only way he could chance running into Midorima and it was worth the ache that burned through his muscles at the start of it all. The distance is nothing to him in modern times, he runs the length twice daily as long as the weather permits it. In the beginning, however, Takao suffered through many spells of aching muscles and sore joints. Midorima told him that he had set sail without researching the tide, that he needed to integrate running into his routine at a moderate pace, but as usual, Takao hadn't listened.

He had gotten tired of the course where the track homes all looked the same—with their matching roofs and tiles and cheap wooden frames. He had spent so many evenings lying alone on his unmade bed, dreaming up new avenues and roadways with secret passages and railways in between. He would spend hours lost inside of his head, absentmindedly counting the minutes like he didn't have much of a future left.

Which eventually became the reason for a particular conversation with Midorima.

They had been in a small cafe on the outskirts of town, closer to their school than either of their respective homes. It was a place Midorima liked to go to when he wanted to escape for a little while, so naturally, Takao had to insert himself into the scene like a picture framed in memory.

It had been cold that day, and when they received their drinks—one green tea espresso and one hot chocolate—Takao was still wearing the chill on his skin when he carried his drink to their favorite table in the cafe's back corner. Midorima counted the cracks in the floor as they walked to their seats but Takao had grown so used to the sound that he hadn't even noticed as he slid into his place behind the table's edge.

“It's so frickin' cold!” Takao said, breathing into his hands.

“Akashingō,” Midorima replied as he took the seat opposite Takao's. They always sat on the same sides of the table, no matter where they were; it was another one of Midorima's quirks that Takao had to adjust to, but as with all of the taller boy's unique mannerisms, he did so quickly. Midorima shivered slightly and tugged his scarf further up his neck.

“I didn't even swear!” Takao countered, laughing. “You're so prickly, Shin-chan.” Takao took a sip of his hot chocolate and winced as the beverage burned his upper lip. “Shit,” he cursed, hissing under his breath.

Midorima exhaled one of his notoriously long breaths that spoke for all the words he wanted to say but didn't bother to articulate. He blew lightly on his drink before taking a sip, pointedly looking at Takao before steam began to fog up his glasses.

“Yes, Shin-chan, I get it. It's hot. I need to blow on it. I'm just cold and I want to warm up before I lose a limb.” Takao paused for a moment, then smiled at Midorima in a way that made the green-haired boy arch an eyebrow.

“Why do I already feel irritated by what you're going to say?”

Takao laughed and crossed his left leg over his right knee. “Because you're always judging me unfairly.” Takao blew into his hands again and shivered. “Anyway, what I was _going_ to say before you rudely interrupted me was, that girl, the one who made that for you” –Takao nodded at Midorima's milky green beverage– “she totally likes you.”

Midorima had very nearly choked on his drink and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm _eleven_ , Takao. She's...” Midorima quickly flicked his gaze over to the girl behind the counter and Takao couldn't help but laugh as his cold cheeks turned a darker shade of pink.

“But you don't _look_ eleven, Shin-chan. You're taller than most boys our age and you act like you're fifty. Naturally, she'd be confused.” Takao, after blowing on his hot chocolate for an entire minute, finally dared to take a cautious sip.

“I don't know where you got such a flippant idea from but you're clearly mistaken,” Midorima said, in a tone that sounded more like a parent scolding a child than one child speaking to another.

“They don't even _sell_ those here,” Takao said, looking at Midorima's hands. “She makes them special just for you.”

Midorima shook his head and waved a hand to dispel Takao's fit of delusional insanity. “She's at least fifteen if she's working here. There's no way that she'd have any interest in me.”

“Suit yourself,” Takao lilted before another shiver curled viciously around his spine. “I'm not usually this cold. Why aren't you shivering? You're always cold.”

“I'm not always cold, Takao. Don't be impractical.” Midorima dabbed at his mouth once again, then rose from his seat to press the back of his hand to Takao's forehead.

“I'm not crazy,” Takao started but Midorima was quick to intervene.

“You have a fever. We should get you home. You need to rest.” Midorima immediately gathered up his belongings while shooting Takao a look that suggested he should do the same. “Do you need me to call my driver?”

“I'll be okay,” Takao said, keeping his head held high as he followed Midorima out of the cafe. For once in his life, he was grateful that Midorima made them order their drinks to-go instead of using the vintage glass tumblers and mugs the cafe's usual loiterers insisted upon— _They're crawling with bacteria, Takao!_

The walk home seemed unending, dragging on longer than Takao had ever remembered it lasting, and he felt every step of it. The chill in the air seemed to cut right down to his bones and if his blood was warm before, it had surely frozen by the time his apartment came into view. He stuck close to Midorima's side, relishing the warmth that emanated from his body, and if Midorima realized how close they were walking together, he said nothing about it.

No more than thirty-minutes could have passed before Takao was donning his favorite pair of pajamas, forced into two pairs of socks, stuffed into bed, and wrapped up like a spring roll. He was shivering but the heating pad that Midorima had borrowed from the bathroom drawer was helping despite the cool cloth draped across his forehead.

“I'm really f-fine. You d-don't n-need t-to,” Takao chattered as his teeth clicked together.

“I won't be able to stay past dark but I'll stick around until you start to warm up.” Midorima narrowed his eyes in Takao's direction and pressed his lips together tightly. “I don't trust you not to get up and fool around either.”

Midorima slid Takao's desk chair into the center of the room, huffing a breath of disapproval as a dirty T-shirt tried to tag along. “You need to clean more, Takao. An unclean room makes for a weak immune system, you know.”

“Yeah, I'm sure that's why I'm sick. It has nothing to do with the weather or the fact that the cold flu is going around...” Takao trailed off, biting on the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile.

“Go ahead, render your jokes, but making a mockery of the situation isn't doing your immune system any favors.” Midorima plucked at a stray thread on the edge of his sweater, his brows furrowed in such an exaggerated way that he almost looked furious.

A long stretch of silence settled over the room and Takao found that there was nothing more comforting in reticence than knowing that Midorima was only an arms-length away— _mostly_ , Takao might have to tip himself out of his bed a little to reach him but it was close.

“Shin-chan?” Takao asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Mm?” Midorima hummed, sounding sleepier than he usually let slip

“Are you afraid of death?” Takao questioned, his eyes staring up at his ceiling as he measured the pros and cons of going to sleep.

“You're not going to die, Takao,” Midorima said, tired in a way that, at that point, had nothing to do with fatigue.

“No, I know. I'm really asking. I'm curious.” Takao rolled over onto his side and Midorima exhaled a sigh as the damp cloth slid off of Takao's head and onto the floor.

“To some degree, I suppose I am. Isn't everyone?” Midorima crossed the room and picked up the cloth. He folded it in the opposite direction it was previously and laid it back across Takao's forehead. “I'm not afraid of the act of dying. We're all going to die someday. I guess I'm just...uneasy about what comes after,” he finished after choosing his words carefully.

“I guess I get that. I kind of assumed something like that would be your answer. I suppose that wasn't entirely fair of me but I've heard that a lot of superstitious people are scared of dying. Like how black cats are a bad omen or whatever.” Takao pressed a hand to his forehead to hold the cloth in place and smiled at Midorima.

“I believe that particular superstition began in Europe. I don't feel one way or the other when it comes to witches but I don't care for any type of cat. As for dying, it's as I said. I think the fear stems specifically from what happens when we die rather than the ritual of death itself. We can accept death because we know it's inevitable, and to some degree, we know what the process of passing is going to entail. But where we go when we die, who we see, if the religions we believed in were right or wrong...those are the kinds of things that facilitate anxious and unsettled responses.” Midorima was still standing when he finished speaking but he looked unusually complacent with his answer—Midorima was the type to always second-guess himself.

“Are you religious, Shin-chan?”

That's when the color drained from Midorima's face and every depiction of comfort, from his expression to the way he began to shift his weight, changed immediately.

“I shouldn't have asked! It's none of my business!” Takao supplemented, hoping that he could rectify whatever uncomfortable situation he'd just involuntarily burdened Midorima with.

“It's something my parents don't agree with.” Midorima paced the room several times without continuing and Takao didn't know if it was a good time to feign sleeping or crack one of his obnoxious jokes—he only knew that he never wanted to see Midorima in such a state of discomfort ever again.

Takao's mouth had gone dry and just as he wet his lips, trying to formulate something to say to break the tension, Midorima resumed speaking.

“You know how much faith I put in astrology and horoscopes,” Midorima paused briefly and Takao's heart skipped a beat when he saw a small smile take over the shape of his lips. “I tend to lean toward Chinese Astrology and Taoism belief systems the most. My parents don't like it though. They think that I'm getting too into the occult.”

“There's no way you'd believe in that creepy stuff!” Takao shifted and tried to untangle himself from the heating pad cord. “It's like they don't know you at all.”

“They're just...” Midorima walked over to the side of Takao's bed and fixed the cord back into its rightful position. “They try to preserve a very conventional morality and they both have a traditional way of thinking. It's what brought them together when they were in medical school. I respect their beliefs, I just wish that they would try to understand mine a little more. Or at all...” Midorima tacked on.

“Well, no need to fear! I'll always be here to lend an ear— _hopefully, two_ —and I won't judge you for liking the stars and obsessing over Oha Asa,” Takao said, beaming.

“I'm not obsessed,” Midorima scolded, but not before Takao could catch another hint of a smile. “Now stop running your mouth. You already talk too much and you need to rest.”

A long stretch of silence spread over them—save for an occasional groan of the chair Midorima returned himself to—and Takao was quickly approaching the hazy horizon of hibernation when he cleared his throat and looked over at Midorima through squinted eyes.

“Thanks, Shin-chan. You're a really good friend. You're too smart for me and sometimes you really know how to get under my skin but...I'm glad we met.”

Takao wishes he could have seen Midorima's expression then, but the fever and the warmth of something he still didn't quite understand helped him find repose, and no matter how much he wanted to fight it, the cold that would last two whole weeks had already dug its claws deep into Takao's cells. 


	7. Hideous Heart

Takao hadn't said anything about Midorima taping his fingers when he first noticed it. He assumed it had something to do with one of Midorima's new-found superstitions or something new he'd heard on one of his fortune-telling broadcasts. He brushed it off and assumed that Midorima would prattle on about it at some point.

Now, when Takao ruminates on the thought, he thinks it probably had something to do with trying to prove himself rather than waiting for Midorima to broach the topic. There were many instances when Takao tried to convince Midorima that he didn't need to know everything about him and that he did have some reservations. Which in truth, he realizes now, he absolutely did not.

It had been meditative in the beginning, watching Midorima wind tape carefully around his fingers and up to the tips of his long digits. He had added the tape to the arsenal of items he always carried with him, including his lucky item—and if Takao thinks about the memory hard enough he believes _that_ day's fate would be decided by a red book on foreign literature.

“Hey, Shin-chan?” Takao asked, hanging over the edge of his bed and looking upside down at the boy who sat cross-legged on his floor.

“Hm?” Midorima hummed, in the same way he always did when he was half-paying attention, half-preoccupied.

“What do you think junior high will be like?” Takao pressed the soles of his feet against the wall and continued to tap out a series of buttons on his turquoise blue Nintendo DS.

“I presume that it's going to be a subtle shift from what we're doing now. We'll be studying some new subjects and I believe that the course structure will be a bit different, but it's really just moving from one institution to another.” Midorima finished wrapping his last finger and set the tape down on his knee with an audible sigh.

“Shit!” Takao blurted as Mario missed his jump and crashed into a Banzai Bill, ending his life.

“Akashingō,” Midorima said and chased the warning with another sigh.

“Have _you_ ever tried beating this level? No. You have no idea how complicated it is,” Takao ranted. Midorima opened his mouth to respond but Takao was cut in before he had the opportunity. “Don't give me any of that it's a _waste of time_ , _bad for your eyes_ , _unproductive_ , _useless_ poppycock either. I know that I'm wasting my life away right along with all of my potential, but I'm all right with that.”

“Takao, I need to tell you something,” Midorima said suddenly, his tone taking on a sharp edge of seriousness.

“Go for it,” Takao said, mashing down the A button harder than necessary. “But I don't want to hear anything about why I haven't restocked the fridge with red bean soup. I'll get more tomorrow and I'll even buy you some of that red bean bread that you like.” A brief pause, then: “What is it with you and red beans anyway?”

“I'll be going to Teikō Junior High in April,” Midorima divulged, and if Takao hadn't been thrown from his train of thought and right onto the tracks, then he might have made a joke about spilling the beans.

Instead, Takao's grip went slack and the DS slipped from his hands, hitting him square on the chin with a muted _thunk_. He pulled himself upright as fast as his body would allow. The room spun and he was suddenly concerned about the rapid thrum of his heart— _has it ever beat this fast before?_

“Wait a minute, I thought we were going to Hiroki,” Takao said as he unwittingly reached up to hold his hand over the throbbing ache settling in his chin. The room looked blurry and it was then that he realized a veil of tears had collected over his blue-gray eyes.

Midorima swallowed thickly and nodded his head. He averted his gaze from the pain pooling behind the dark lines of Takao's lashes. “We were—I was—my parents thought it would be more appropriate if I went to an elite school. They have an exceptionally strong basketball club and a renowned health committee. The curriculum they proposed to my parents is said to help children get a strong start toward their futures and their programs support individual success. This could be really good for me.”

Despite the pain pulsing through Takao's chin and lower jaw, it paled in comparison to the stabbing ache that lanced through his heart. He was grateful for the former because he could pretend that the reason for his tears was linked to the injury and not the bleeding heart perched on his shirt.

“Fuck your parents!” Takao shouted, shocked by his own words. “They don't care about what's best for you. If they did they would take the time to listen to your thoughts and feelings. They only care about their reputations.” He exhaled a shaky breath and felt something click in the back of his throat as tears spilled down his cheeks. “Is this what you want? Did you...did you even try to explain that you already had a plan?”

Midorima pushed himself into standing, and if Takao hadn't been looking through a watered-down meniscus lens, he might have noticed how badly Midorima's legs were shaking. “I should go, Takao. We can talk about this another time...when you've calmed down some.”

“How can you expect me to be calm about this?” Takao ran his hands through his hair and for as much as he wanted to pace the room as some form of distraction, he couldn't get his legs to work. “You don't even—I didn't think—how long have you known?” Takao stammered, breath hitching as he gulped for air. He wasn't entirely settled on the question but conceding to the only words he could form seemed like the best option in his current position.

“A while... Since I started practicing my shots more,” Midorima answered, something akin to shame wavering in and out of his voice.

But Takao didn't believe it was real, he _couldn't_ believe that it was real because he was too hurt, too stacked with disappointment to lend himself the comfort that maybe Midorima didn't like this either.

“What the hell...” Takao said, his voice trailing off like the ghost of sudden understanding. “Did you know this back when you started taping your fingers? You knew _all_ this time and you didn't think that...I don't know...that maybe you should tell me?”

“I know you're upset, Takao. I knew you'd be upset, that's why I didn't tell you.” He took one step in the direction of Takao's bedroom door, then paused. “They don't think that our friendship is healthy. They wanted me to go to a different school so that we'd have more time apart.” It was a confession and Takao could hear the apprehension in Midorima's tone but it did nothing to calm the static crackling beneath his skin.

“Do _you_?” Takao asked, his voice barely scratching above a whisper.

“What?” Midorima replied darkly regardless of the strange look that was overtaking his features.

“Do you agree with them?” Takao's voice was climbing higher, as if it were clawing its way out of some unseen grave.

“I...I don't know,” Midorima hedged, his hands curling into tight fists by his sides.

Takao furrowed his brow as heavier tears began to race down his flushed cheeks. His lip began to tremble and all he wanted to do was escape from the weight and the bitterness building in his heart. “Get out,” he bit sharply, keeping his gaze pinned on Midorima despite how badly he wanted to look away.

“Takao...”

“Get out!” Takao shouted before Midorima could drive a deeper wedge between them.

He didn't watch Midorima leave but when the door closed softly behind the green-haired boy, Takao sunk to his knees and heaved a sob that he failed to understand. It shook throughout his whole body and he cried all through the song he sang in his head whenever he thought about Midorima.

Takao cried as a particular memory drifted through his restive mind. He could see it clearly: Midorima falling onto his bed and Takao joining him on his knees. Takao had talked about American music and Midorima talked about biographies, all while Takao had smiled as his life depended on it. Now, the memory seemed so far away, and instead of warmth and happiness, he could only feel the icy hands of anguish on his skin as he stared into the wretched face of hopelessness.

Even hours later, when the tears on his cheeks had dried and Takao sat in the bathtub, arms wrapped around his bony knees, he couldn't make sense of what he was feeling. He knew why it hurt, he just didn't understand why it hurt so fucking bad.

But like the inevitability of the cradle to the grave, it was bound to happen at some point. There was never a friendship that thrived solely on sunshine, and even though Takao would shiver the whole night through, he would soon understand that the bad things in life are sometimes necessary before you're able to find the path that leads to better things.

And in this case, that path would eventually lead Takao to some of the best things that would ever happen to him.


	8. Break The Fall

It took Takao a long time to move past what he saw as the worst kind of betrayal. He would spend most nights sitting in misery, unable to do anything but dwell on what had happened. He would see Midorima's face even when he wasn't around; he would hear his voice in everything that he did. It was like Midorima had died and become a malevolent spirit set on torturing him whenever he managed to feel fresh and full of spirits.

He ignored Midorima whenever he called or managed to sneak away from his house long enough to do his homework on the building's front lawn— _he was out of his mind if he thought that Takao was going to run to him like he had when they were only six-years-old_. It was the hardest to ignore him at school but eventually, after many failed attempts, Midorima stopped trying to talk to Takao.

It hurt, at first. It had been enough to tear and rend at his heart all over again. His heart hadn't even mended from its last traumatic shock, and like trying to learn how to play on the broken strings of a violin, Takao was breaking down all through an encore that didn't belong to him.

Before long, on one morning during the first weekend after spring break had come to an end, Takao's eyes came open hours before his alarm was due to shake him into awareness. It was then that he came to the sudden realization that he had taken his friendship with Midorima for granted. Sure, it was unfair of Midorima to have kept such an important and monumental secret from him for so long but he had been selfish. If this is what Midorima truly wanted, then he should have supported him, just like all of the times Midorima had backed him even when he'd disagreed with his choices.

Feeling foolish and admittedly, still torn up over what had happened, Takao couldn't bring himself to make his way over to Midorima's house to apologize. If he had to guess, his parents weren't home but based on the slim chance that it just so happened to be one of their days off, Takao didn't want to risk it. He might be able to forgive Midorima but he wasn't ready to extend that hand to his parents.

He didn't want to call Midorima because...well that would be awkward at this point, and Takao felt that something like this was too important to discuss over the phone. So he decided that it would have to wait.

His limbs itched throughout the entire day as if he had bugs crawling beneath his skin, and his body ached from the tension held in his frame by the time he finished washing his dinner dishes. His stomach hurt and he could hear Midorima in the back of his mind— _Were you drinking from the tap again, Takao? That water could be contaminated. You could have ingested Cryptosporidium oocysts or Giardia cysts. You should go see a doctor immediately._

Takao felt like his head was caving in by the time he finished with his bath. He wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror as he toweled the water from his skin, laughing for the first time in weeks when he recalled the time he and Midorima got caught in the rain.

“I'm such an idiot,” he whispered, combing through his hair with the same swiftness he did in most things. He returned his comb to the blue cup near the sink and exhaled a shaky breath. He wet the cracks in his lips— _Takao, have you ever heard of lip balm?_ —and exited the bathroom, only to quickly return to brush his teeth.

Takao dressed in silence but turned on his used Denon single-tray CD player once he settled on the edge of his bed. It was once his father's but Takao never cared whether or not something was new as long as it worked. Midorima, on the other hand, liked things fresh out of layers upon layers of packaging. He hummed along with a rock song and tapped his foot in time with the beat. The whole time, he kept checking the numbers on his bedside clock.

When his clock read 22:27, his mother cracked open his door and poked her head into his room, a warm smile stretched across her lotion-masked face. She bid him goodnight and told him not to stay up too late. _It might be the weekend but you're still only twelve._

Takao was familiar with his parents' sleeping schedules, not for any particular reason, perhaps he had a weak bladder or drank too much close to bedtime. Nonetheless, the only thing that mattered was that his father would already be asleep and his mother would be tucking in alongside him any minute. She was quick to fall asleep so Takao waited for half-an-hour to be safe before stuffing pillows beneath his comforter and sneaking out of his apartment.

He made it outside easier than he expected, but his heart still hammered in his chest like it had the day he learned that Midorima wouldn't be attending the school that they had decided on together. It was a crisp night and Takao was grateful for it. He stepped out of the motion-sensing light that illuminated the apartment building's entrance and slunk into the shadows.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?”

Takao knew that voice better than he ever wanted to. He thought about making a run for it but Shōgo would undoubtedly catch up to him with ease.

“What do you want?” Takao asked, trying to keep his jumbled nerves from extending to his voice. He turned around and tried to force his eyes to acclimate to the dark night. The orange end of a cigarette hovered in the dark, moving to what Takao's vision could just make out as the other boy's lips. “Gross. You're not even old enough to smoke,” Takao blurted.

“Yeah, I should really kick the habit,” Haizaki said, flicking the still-lit cigarette at Takao. Then he clapped his hands as if he had any right to be cold when he was standing outside in nothing more than a threadbare T-shirt and jeans comprised of more holes than a colander.

Takao jumped out of the cigarette's path and used the toe of a grass-stained sneaker to stub it out. “I'm glad we had this lovely chat but I need to get going,” Takao deadpanned.

“Sneaking off to suck your boyfriend's dick?” Haizaki needled, squeezing a hand over the front of his jeans. “I bet you've gotten real good at that by now.”

Takao scrunched his nose and frowned in a show of disgust. “You're repulsive.”

“You asked me what I wanted. Maybe I want you to suck _my_ dick.” Haizaki licked his lips and took a step closer toward Takao. Thankfully, Takao was able to uproot his feet from the ground and jump back from the shadow that threatened to swallow him whole.

“That'll never happen,” Takao barked, but he could feel his stomach churning and his hands shaking. He'd never been able to escape from Haizaki's clutches in the past. If he was serious about this, Takao had next to no possibility of escaping. “Besides, that would be gay and you hate f-faggots,” Takao managed, hating the word as much as he hated the way it soured his tongue.

“Sure do,” Haizaki said, but Takao knew it was too soon to breathe a sigh of relief. More quickly than he expected it, however, Haizaki proceeded to torment him. “Which means I'd take one for the team if it meant humiliating a little faggot like you.” Haizaki spit at his feet and whether by the grace of some higher power or Takao's instinctual knowledge and sudden foresight, he bolted. He ran faster than he'd ever run in his life and he didn't look over his shoulder once, no matter how bad the urge to confirm or deny his worst fears became.

Takao doubled-over when he reached the backside of Midorima's house. He curled his hands into fists and pressed them to his knees as he panted for breath. His lungs burned and his muscles ached. His head was pulsing with an excess of adrenaline, hell even his _feet_ hurt. But he had gotten away, and not only that, he had achieved the first step in his mission. He hadn't expected to get from his residence to Midorima's to be the hardest part, but something about escaping Haizaki's cruel clutches made him feel stronger than ever.

Takao took one final steadying breath and drew his spine into proper alignment despite the twinge of discomfort that traveled down his backbone. He scaled the side of Midorima's house, pleased to discover that there weren't any alarm systems, barbed wire, or security lights protecting the property as he'd half-planned for. At least, none that he could _see_.

When he nearly lost his balance on one of the roof's narrow overhangs, his heart began to race again and he wondered how many times he could force it into overdrive before it would finally capitulate and detonate. He moved slowly and cautiously, his palms sweaty and his knees trembling. For a brief moment, he thought he caught sight of a flashlight but it was only the light of the moon reflecting off of the chimney flashing. He exhaled a bated breath and continued moving toward the house's gable side until he saw the hatched skylight come into view, and to his relief, the soft glow of lamplight bounced off of the glass.

The distance he traveled once on the roof wasn't as far as Takao thought it was but he felt as though he'd traversed the entire thing. He inhaled a deep breath of the brisk night air, then— _it's now or never_ —rapped lightly on Midorima's window.

Initially, Midorima continued reading whatever it was he was holding but when Takao knocked again, slightly louder, Midorima flung himself out of bed and huffed over to his bedroom door. Takao had to press his hands to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Midorima opened his door, poked his head out into the hall, checked both directions, then traipsed back into his room shaking his head.

 _Why would your little sister be up at this hour, Shin-chan?_ Takao thought, rapping his knuckles against the glass a third time before Midorima could make himself comfortable in bed once more. Midorima furrowed his brow and glanced around his room, doing a double-take when he finally acknowledged the transparent square of glass cut into his ceiling. _And you say I'm unobservant._

Midorima stood rooted to the spot for a long moment and Takao suddenly began to panic. He hadn't thought as far as Midorima refusing to let him in. And why wouldn't he? He'd have no reason to let Takao into his room this late at night, risking punishment if they got caught by some chance occurrence. Especially not when considering their current state of things. Takao thought about speaking through the glass but he couldn't risk being heard by anyone other than Midorima. Then all at once, Midorima's feet came unglued from the floor and the fog cleared from Takao's thoughts. Suddenly, the window's latch was coming open with a soft metal clink.

“What are you doing here?” Midorima rasped, shock making his eyes brighter than the stars and rounder than the moon.

Takao climbed in through the window and carefully lowered himself down to the floor without making too much noise. With his feet finally comfortably balanced on more solid ground, Takao felt as if the night was pulling into the day. The stitches of his world were coming together and he recognized that in all the years that he'd known Midorima, this was the first time he'd ever set foot in his room.

“Takao,” Midorima said, tipping the bewildered waters of his tone into a foxhole of sternness.

Takao was breathing hard and he didn't know what to say because it wasn't like he'd _rehearsed_ what he was going to do when he got to this moment. In retrospect, he realized that he should have spent his free time at home doing just that, but hindsight is 20/20 and all that nonsense. Though, at that moment, he was feeling like Midorima must have felt when he didn't have his glasses on.

Takao found himself wondering if that's why he'd never done this before—when they were on better terms and everything wasn't so complicated. He'd thought about it many times before. Mostly he'd panicked about it but there were times when he'd fantasized about it, and with the way Midorima was staring at him, it was hard to tell the difference between the two.

“Okay, so I...” Takao began but every ounce of courage he had felt immediately drained from his body like he'd been cut by the sharp edge of a knife and left to bleed all over Midorima's imported carpet.

He had been wrong. _This_ was the hardest part.

He needed to buy time and fortunately, Midorima's innate need to know the details about everything showered him with a handful of seconds.

“How did you get up here? How did you know which room was even _mine_?”

Takao smiled at that and felt himself grow a little taller. “You're the only one in the house who has a skylight. You begged for this room—oh, don't give me that look, Shin-chan, you told me so yourself. As for how, you have garden lattice almost directly beneath your window. It's like you're _asking_ for someone to come into your room.”

Midorima nodded slowly as if the information was taking a while to process. “Okay...aside from all of the things that could have happened to you and how utterly stupid your plan of action was... _Why_ are you here?” Midorima walked over to his bed and sat on the very edge of it, his back more rigid than Takao had ever seen it.

Takao racked his brain for something to say before he finally settled on: “What kind of friend would I be if I didn't come over to see how your first day went?”

“Takao, we haven't spoken in over two months,” Midorima countered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, are those new glasses?” Takao asked, genuinely curious.

“You're skirting around the question,” Midorima admonished.

“Fine, I am. But I really was curious. They look nice on you,” he said, not needing Midorima's confirmation because _of course_ he knew that they were new. Takao inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he exhaled, he let his eyes slowly pull Midorima's room back into view. “Here goes nothing,” he said under his breath, but he had reason to believe that the other boy heard him loud and clear.

“I realized this morning that I was being selfish and that I should be happy for you. I still think that it's shitty, what you did, and I don't know that I'm completely over it yet but...I don't want to fight anymore. I hate when you're not around and even if I have to settle on weekends or evenings or” –Takao waved his hands theatrically– “whatever. I'll take what I can get because these past two months have been hell on me.”

Midorima sat stock-still while he stared at Takao, almost as if he could see straight through him. It left Takao feeling unnerved, like Midorima was plucking at the stars and the strings of his soul. He felt like he had earlier that morning, with bugs beneath his skin and a chill in his blood, so he decided that his excuse wasn't enough and that Midorima expected more.

“It's just that...things are better when you're around. I can think more clearly and things don't seem as fucking complicated. I miss your stupid voice and your stupid green hair and the way you'd go off on me when I did something idiotic or...what was it that you used to say...” Takao picked at his thoughts but Midorima's dry voice startled him into sudden awareness.

“Half-witted, simpleminded, imbecilic,” Midorima supplied. He raised his head and Takao would have thought that Midorima had been crying if he didn't know better. “Did you mean what you said?” he abruptly diverted.

“Well, yeah,” Takao answered, rubbing the back of his stiff neck with ice-cold fingers. “I don't want to be happy for you, if I'm being honest, because I hate that you're away at that upright school but...”

“No,” Midorima interjected swiftly, “I meant what you said about me.”

Takao's neck flushed and he could sense the heat of what he was feeling inside spread to color across the contours of his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. “Oh, that...” He laughed uncomfortably but this was Midorima, and if Takao could tell anyone anything, this was his go-to man. “Yeah. I meant that, too. I meant everything I said,” he quickly added.

Midorima lowered his head again and stared at his hands, which were folded in his lap. He remained silent for a long time but Takao didn't know what else to say. He thought that maybe Midorima needed a minute to sort things out so he chewed on the bottom line of his mouth until he heard an _almost_ imperceptible sniffle.

“Shin-chan?” Takao approached cautiously, his voice barely a scar on the room's eerie stillness.

When Midorima didn't answer, Takao inched forward as though he were walking on thin ice and placed his hand on Midorima's shoulder. Midorima lifted his head slowly and the pain in his expression sent a bullet straight-through Takao's chest. His heart was deformed by ricochet and soft brass cut through muscle to shatter the bones of his rib cage. The look in Midorima's eyes was enough to throw lead directly into his gut but it was the glistening damp that streaked both of his cheeks that nearly sent Takao to the floor.

“No one has ever...” Midorima produced but he couldn't seem to fit his emotions into words and Takao didn't need him to. He leaned forward and threw his arms around Midorima's shoulders in an artless hug. It was the first time he'd ever experienced anything like this with Midorima. He just assumed that he'd cried enough for the both of them and that it would take something catastrophic to bring the green-haired boy to tears.

Midorima shifted after a quiet moment, and Takao jumped back almost as if he were sitting on top of the world and the dirt beneath him had started to shift. He watched as Midorima's taped fingers reached for his wet cheek, and how his brow furrowed when he realized that he'd been crying. Takao couldn't imagine such a natural thing being so foreign to someone but then again, this was Midorima, and Takao _still_ has yet to meet someone as extraordinary as Midorima to date.

“I don't mean to shift the tides or anything but um...” Takao bit the inside of his cheek briefly as he tried to select the right words. “Are we okay now?”

A look fluttered across Midorima's face as if he wanted to say something but he nodded instead. “If anything, I'm more upset with you for coming over here at nearly”–Midorima's eyes flickered to his clock– “midnight. Anything could have happened to you.”

Takao laughed nervously and by the look in Midorima's eyes, he wasn't getting out of telling him the reason for his traitorous response. “I kind of ran into Haizaki, uh, Shōgo, when I was leaving my apartment.”

Midorima's eyes grew wide and Takao had to wave his hand in a quick show of dismissal. “I'm okay. Nothing all that eventful happened. He was just vile, mostly. I was able to run away before things got serious. I think I pulled a few stitches on the way over here, though,” he joked.

Midorima arched an eyebrow and Takao shook his head. “Not real ones. I promise that I haven't gotten hurt since we've been apart.” Takao fit the length of his index finger against his mouth and began to chew on his bottom lip again.

Midorima pushed himself into standing and closed the distance between them in a single stride. “Stop that,” he said, curling his fingers around Takao's wrist and tugging his hand away from his mouth. “Bacteria,” he added needlessly. “Are you telling me everything that happened? With Haizaki?”

Takao nodded his head and smiled softly at Midorima. “Yeah. He...” Takao thought about telling him what Haizaki had called him but something felt strange about admitting it aloud so he settled on “just called me a few names” instead.

Midorima, who could always read him like an open book, didn't look entirely convinced but he let it go. “He could still be there then, right?”

“He looked pretty cold but who knows? I always see him smoking outside so it's likely that he can't do it inside his apartment. I've never seen his parents but maybe they're against it. I don't really see how though. I mean with the way he behaves they can't be all that great,” Takao said, sullen.

“He only has his mother and his older brother,” Midorima supplemented and gasped softly after the sentence left his mouth.

“How do you know?” Takao asked and knit his brows together.

Midorima exhaled one of his trademark sighs, a sound that Takao had never dreamed of missing until it met his ears. “I know because he goes to Teikō.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Takao blurted loudly, and Midorima was quick to clamp a hand over his mouth.

“Akashingō,” Midorima told him before slowly withdrawing his hand. “Yes, I'm serious. He's as awful there as he is at home, too. I thought that maybe he'd show some decency being in such a celebrated establishment but color me stupid,” Midorima huffed.

For a moment, Takao wanted to run straight home and pluck Haizaki's cold eyes right out of his head with nothing more than his fingers—because the thought of Haizaki doing anything to Midorima in the same vein as what he'd done to him makes his blood burn hotter than the sun on the hottest day of the year.

“Takao,” Midorima said, and the sound of his name on Midorima's lips was enough to drive away the disturbingly clear vision from his head.

“Yeah, I'm here,” Takao said, blinking several times to clear his range of view. “Sorry. Tonight's just been...a lot,” he submitted with a huff of quiet laughter.

“It seems that way. Well, you can stay here. If you want to,” Midorima told him, infusing his words together like he was watching the clock count down to 0:00.

Takao stared at him blankly. If he was at a loss for words before, then he didn't know what to call this; but he had nothing rehearsed for the words that tumbled out of Midorima's mouth and right into Takao's head on repeat.

“I don't—what if— _what_?” Takao sputtered helplessly.

“It's late and I doubt you thought to grab your apartment key anyway. If Haizaki is still roaming around outside, I don't think it's wise for you to go home. It'd be safer for you to stay here for the night. I can walk you home in the morning.”

“But your parents...” Takao tried and failed yet again.

“They're both working double at the hospital. They shouldn't be home until after breakfast so you should be fine.” Midorima must have seen the incredulous look on Takao's face then because he said: “Would you have a little more faith in me? Who has gotten us out of every terrible thing you've done in the past?”

Takao let laughter slip past his lips and the sound played a more familiar tune to his ears. “Fair enough. Okay, so...” Takao glanced around the room before looking back at Midorima. “Where do you want me to sleep? I can take the floor or if your parents aren't going to be home I can...”

Midorima shook his head. “You have to stay in here. It would be unlikely but if my little sister were to see you, we'd be in trouble. She's at the age where all news is news meant to be shared, if not screamed to the world.”

“I'm very familiar with that age,” Takao commented in reference to his younger sister. Then he smiled. He was feeling unusually confident for some reason and if he didn't confess to Midorima now, he didn't know when he'd have another chance. “I was happy to hear it again, even though I hate it. Just so you know,” he gushed.

“What?” Midorima asked, tugging back the plush-looking blankets on his bed.

“Akashingō,” Takao watched Midorima work absentmindedly. “It's just so _you_.”

Midorima said nothing but Takao caught one of the small smiles he always dreamed were meant for him and him alone. Next, Midorima gestured to Takao's feet, which were still sporting a pair of worn-in sneakers.

“Right,” Takao acknowledged. He toed off his shoes and kicked them aside before remembering where he was. He quickly paired them together neatly by the edge of Midorima's desk and tried to pretend that his hands weren't shaking.

“That door there leads to my en-suite facilities,” Midorima pointed. “Don't confuse it with the one that leads out into the hallway.”

Takao nodded his assent and when Midorima held up the edge of his duvet, all of the breath in Takao's lungs left his body at once. “Are you sure?” Takao asked, his mouth suddenly so dry that he had to convince himself that he wasn't chewing on cotton.

“You're my guest. I'm not going to make you sleep on the floor. My bed is plenty big enough for both of us. Just mind your space and keep your unnaturally frigid feet away from me,” Midorima cautioned. “I trust that you're wearing something under those,” he nodded at Takao's jeans and oversized hoodie.

Takao's brain was working so slowly that he spent half a minute trying to get out of his pants and a good twenty seconds working his hoodie over his head. When finally in a pair of sleep shorts and a baggy T-shirt, he dove into Midorima's bed and tried to hide the fact that he was melting against the mattress.

Midorima climbed into his bed with far more grace and dignity. For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke a word. It might have felt awkward if Takao wasn't already slipping into a state of suspended consciousness, but he was feeling the way that he used to when in the presence of Midorima's soothing reticence. It felt different than when he consumed silence alone and he relished the feeling's return.

“Shin-chan?” Takao whispered, in case Midorima had already drifted off to sleep.

“Yeah?” Midorima answered, a bit too rushed to emulate his usual state of calm.

“Thanks. For everything. It means a lot to me,” Takao proclaimed, hiding his blushing face behind the covers.

Midorima said nothing in response but Takao watched his body relax and the tension lift from his shoulders.

And that was answer enough.


	9. Cutting Through Clouds

Takao and Midorima agreed not to talk too much about their respective schools until Takao completely got over the disappointment of not sharing their classes like he'd hoped— _before Midorima had to run off and be independent in all the ways Takao didn't know how to be yet_.

And Takao tried. He tried _very_ hard because he wanted Midorima to be comfortable sharing both his good times and bad with him. It was just that, when it came down to brass tacks, Takao hated that he couldn't be by his side sharing in those things, too. It was selfish, he knew, and he even openhandedly gave Midorima permission to knock him upside the head if he became too wrapped up in himself.

Midorima made the first string of Teikō's basketball team— _as if there were any questions_ —and if nothing else, it facilitated Takao to join his junior high's team. There was no arguing that Midorima's talent was on an entirely different level from his own, but knowing that Midorima was some kind of prodigy, Takao vowed to work even harder. He knew that he would never reach Midorima's caliber, but if he could one day be on the same court as the awe-inspiring shooting guard, then through blood, sweat, and tears, he would make it happen.

Takao prevailed more than he expected he would. It was true that he'd learned from one of the best— _had they ever seen Midorima play?_ —but there was something special about him. It set him aside from the other players and made Takao believe that just _maybe_ he truly could rise to solid ground. He might not be able to reach the clouds where Midorima stood but it was better than having one foot in the grave.

He had been optimistic before, but Takao wasn't stupid, and there was enough doubt swirling around inside of his head to make him dizzy and sick. When he learned that he had the visual acuity of a hawk, that he had the capacity to make fine discriminations, he was over the moon. He never had any reason to believe that his vision was special. It wasn't as though he'd ever been able to look through the eyes of someone else. He just assumed that his telescopic eye functions and wide visual range were normal.

Upon learning that he had a special skill, however, Takao stole the first opportunity he had to tell Midorima of his newfound discovery.

“I'm not so run-of-the-mill, after all,” Takao said, a little too proudly.

They had just finished an impromptu game of one-on-one in a quiet park. The game ended in Midorima's favor but Takao had no intention of winning. He didn't have to come out victorious when he played against Midorima. He was just happy to be there.

“That's not all that surprising,” Midorima replied and draped the jacket he kept for times such as these over a park bench. When satisfied, he sat down on the firm seat and started to rifle through his schoolbag.

“Wait, really?” Takao asked, sounding as surprised as he felt. Takao's heart was pounding hard in his chest and he felt sorry for anyone who genuinely had to go up against Midorima. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his long-sleeved tee and tried to swallow what little moisture remained on his tongue to abate his thirst.

“Mm. I, for one, have never viewed you as anything other than abnormal.” Midorima found what he was looking for and tossed a bottle of water to Takao.

“Ha, ha, Shin-chan,” Takao deadpanned, but he was smiling. He uncapped the bottle of water and took a large swig, almost choking on the rush of liquid spilling down his dry throat. When he was between satiating his thirst and throwing up from drinking too quickly, he capped the bottle and set it down on the bench. “How was school today? It's rare for you to not have after-school practice.”

Midorima, who had just plucked a fresh roll of tape out of his bag, stared at Takao in a way that made the shorter male chuckle uncomfortably.

“What? I told you, I'm trying here. Besides, I'm fairly curious this time. It's getting harder for us to find time to hang out.” Takao plopped down on the bench, hard enough to send a sharp pang through his bottom. “It makes me miss the way things used to be. I like that we have more freedom now—well, as long as your parents don't find out,” Takao laughed a little too breathlessly. “It just...it sucks, you know? When we were kids we didn't have to worry about staying after school for hours, and speaking of, are you getting mountains of homework too, because I'm sincerely thinking about switching schools at this point...”

“Akashingō,” Midorima said, and the corner of his mouth twitched as if he were already prepared for Takao's dissent.

“Why this time?!” Takao ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. “Man, it's getting harder and harder to talk to you. Soon we're going to be talking about nothing other than...” –Takao waved his hand helplessly– “Shit, I don't know. Sunshine and rainbows.”

Midorima arched an eyebrow and Takao exhaled a puff of breath through the pout on his lips.

“There's no way you could have predicted that, Shin-chan. You're not that good at fortune-telling.” Takao slanted his gaze toward Midorima and smiled. “You're actually pretty bad at it.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Takao,” is all Midorima said in response, and Takao watched him pluck at a stubborn piece of tape that had flattened itself against the rest of the roll.

“Gimme that,” Takao said and held his hand out for the aforementioned tape. Midorima's eyes glittered with hesitation and Takao sent him back a look that said: _trust me_. Midorima reluctantly handed over the white roll, then he reached into his school bag for the second time.

“If anyone knows how precious your fingers are to you, it's me,” Takao said, carefully digging his nail beneath the edge of the tape to get it started. “Although, I suspect that your right hand is probably getting jealous at this point.”

“Did you drink the other bottle of water?” Midorima asked suddenly, and Takao simply shook his head.

“No, my dearest, Shin-chan. I know better than to reach my hand into your bag. I might not obsess over my fingers the way you do but I'd still like to keep them attached.”

“That's strange. I was sure that I packed two.” Midorima shoved at his glasses and frowned.

“So you _were_ planning on playing with me today,” Takao gushed behind a put-on expression of adoration. “You're so sweet, Shin-chan.”

“Shut up, Takao. I guess I'll just have to settle for what we have.”

Midorima grabbed the bottle of water that Takao had guzzled over half of not five minutes ago and unscrewed the cap. Takao ogled him as if he'd just trespassed on something he shouldn't be there to witness. He was sure that to an outsider he looked ridiculous, if not a little mad; and he might have a few bats in the belfry but he knew that he wasn't as far gone as he felt.

His mouth was agape and his eyes felt as if they were going to pop right out of their sockets. He held onto the roll of tape as if it were precious gold and waited for Midorima to come down from whatever unearthly planet he'd traveled to. But much to Takao's surprise, Midorima pressed his lips to the plastic bottle and downed its remaining contents.

Midorima returned the bottle to his bag— _What are the 3Rs of waste management, Takao?—_ and immediately held out his right hand, his palm turned up toward the sky in a gesture of waiting.

“We're not going to talk about that?” Takao's voice cracked somewhere in the middle of the question and for once, he was grateful to be entering puberty.

“Don't be so childish, Takao. The human body loses water through breathing, sweating, and digestion. It's important to rehydrate after...”

“Thank you, Doctor Who. Now can we talk about the fact that Midorima Shintarō didn't just have a stroke after _sharing_ a drink? Mr. I-throw-around-the-word-germ-like-it's-going-out-of-style.”

Midorima shook his head and rolled his eyes as he plucked the tape out of Takao's grip. “I choose my battles based on the greatest outcome. There's nothing more to it.”

Takao gaped at him a moment longer before he nearly jumped into standing. “I'm sorry, have we met? Are you honestly the same person who nearly _cried_ when I took a bite out of your _yakitori_ at last year's festival? Are you feeling well?” Takao pressed his hand to Midorima's forehead.

“Stop it, Takao,” Midorima scolded, laughing quietly as he unraveled a piece of tape.

“Did you just _laugh_? You really are coming down with something. Or maybe I'm sick... Am I delusional? Have I finally broken?” Takao dropped down to his knees and pressed his hands against the delicate jut of Midorima's own. “I'm dying, aren't I?”

Midorima flicked him in the center of his forehead. “Get off of the ground. It's filthy.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, he's rounding the bend but we're not out of the woods yet!” Takao announced to no one in particular because the park was empty.

“Takao,” Midorima warned, but he was holding back a smile.

Takao continued to laugh but his hands were moving abruptly, folding over Midorima's fingers. “Wait. Let me do it,” he said, with an air of unanticipated seriousness.

“Why?” Midorima's tone was even but heavily veiled in curiosity rather than refusal, so it took nothing at all for Takao to reclaim the cylindrical object.

“I don't know,” –Takao lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug– “I just want to.”

“Do you know how?”

Takao looked up at Midorima through his long lashes without moving his head and exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “Shin-chan, how dumb do you think I am? I've only watched you do this, oh, I don't know, a million times already.”

“Point taken. Just don't...”

Takao gave him another pointed look and Midorima pressed his lips together tightly. Instead, he threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“That's more like it. Now give me your left hand, matcha man.”

“I truly wish you wouldn't call me that,” Midorima groaned. He held his left hand out for Takao to take and watched him closely as he began to painstakingly wind the sticky adhesive around his thumb.

“I have literally never called you that before. Besides, it's better than green bean, isn't it?” Takao was slow and precise in his actions but for some reason, being under Midorima's scrutiny was making the back of his neck burn hot and his cheeks flush pink.

“I won't hesitate to kill you,” Midorima threatened. “And you're doing it wrong. I never tape my thumb.”

If Midorima was waiting for Takao to waver, the lapse never came. Rather than skepticism, Takao shook his head smugly and continued with his self-given assignment with all the diligence and care of a surgeon. “It won't work, Shin-chan. I've looked at your hands enough to know that you _always_ tape your thumb.”

A moment of silence stretched over them as Takao gradually shifted from finger to finger, making sure to give each long digit equally divided care. When he finished, he tossed the tape into the air and clapped his hands together. “And that's a wrap!”

Midorima caught the roll flawlessly and tucked it back into his bag. He looked deep in thought, almost concerned, and Takao was about to ask him if everything was okay when Midorima beat him to the chase.

“Why _do_ you stare at my hands so much?”

Takao scrunched up his nose and furrowed his brow. “I don't know. I guess because they're so much bigger than mine and I hope that one day, some of your herculean genes will wear off on me.”

It had been Midorima's turn to furrow his brow but he didn't. Instead, he presented his right hand as if he were asking for a high five— _which he never did_ —and nodded in the direction of Takao's hands.

Takao wet his lips and copied Midorima, completely, feeling like an idiot when he had to switch hands to line up their fingers—or at least, _tried_ to.

“See, that's what I'm talking about. Not only are you like an entire... _shoe_ taller than me, you hath the hands and thews' o' Behemoth.”

The corner of Midorima's mouth tugged upward as he lowered his hand. “Wait until you see Atsushi. He's already over 185 centimeters, and he's still growing.”

“Did his mother drink the blood of Godzilla during her pregnancy?” Takao whistled, then held his hand out in front of him and observed it. “Do you think I'll always be this shrimpy, Shin-chan?”

“It's hard to say.” Midorima rose from the bench, slung his bag over his shoulder, and retrieved his jacket. “But for what you lack in size, you make up in personality.”

Takao jumped to his feet and brushed off the dusty bottoms of his jeans. “Did you just compliment me? Be still my heart; thou hast been gulled.”

Midorima glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and Takao laughed.

“What? I am proficient in the art of romantic language, or is it the language of love? Either way, you can't blame me for showing off now and then.”

“You're speaking in erroneous Elizabethan English, not French. Honestly, Takao, if you're going to try to market your ludicrous thoughts, you should at least get your facts straight first.”

“You mean as straight as the stick crammed up your ass?” Takao dodged the attack aimed at the back of his head. He jogged forward several paces before he turned around to address Midorima directly, his feet moving backward. “Hey, at least I'm refined! And let's not even get started on inaccurate speech, _nanodayo_.”

“Nanodayo is not a false word or an err of flawed speech.” Midorima grabbed one of his glasses arms and shifted them on his nose. “Regarding the high esteem you hold yourself in, you're as refined as high-fructose corn syrup. Which is terrible for you, if you're not already aware.”

The conversation briefly takes Takao back to a time shortly after they'd met, when he'd been running around Midorima in circles like a dog with too much energy. It was the first time he'd heard Midorima speak the word, giving him pause for long enough to tell Midorima that the word reminded him of something out of Naruto. He'd struck a pose and asked him if he watched Shippuden, to which Midorima immediately replied: “ _Absolutely not_.”

Takao smiled keenly, remembering how he'd looked that day, in a dark blue Hello Kitty T-shirt and his sister's red headband stuffed into his hair. He thought about how ridiculous he must have looked, even as a young child—yet, the _already_ distinguished boy behind him never said a word about his appearance that day.

“Au contraire! It can be tolerated in moderation!” Takao exclaimed, shifting back to the present to use the only French phrase he knew to upstage Midorima's cynicism. “Furthermore, people are quite fond of glucose-fructose! So what you're _really_ saying is that I'm quite loved!”

“I think the part, _tolerated in moderation,_ is better suited to describe you. Also, you won't fool me, Takao. I know you can't speak French.” Midorima stopped walking and his mouth curved on a serpentine grin.

“What?” Takao managed, antecedent to tripping over the park's cement curb. He landed hard on his bottom, his hands sinking into the cool, stiff grass a moment too late.

“I think that's karma coming to bite you in the ass.” Midorima stepped forward and held out his right hand for Takao to take. “If one waxes too strong and commits hubris, they're bound to pay for it in one way or another.”

Takao clapped his hand against Midorima's and allowed himself to be bodily tugged to his feet. He brushed off his jeans for the second time and laughed. “Okay, if that's true, then when are you going to pay your dues? I'm pretty sure you're lugging around enough arrogance for the two of us. No harm meant, but you should be falling over a bridge or something any day now. Maybe don't go near water for a while.”

“There is a marked difference between egotism and confidence. I do not have an exaggerated self-opinion. I bear the marks of courage and determination. I believe in my abilities and fate determines the rest.”

“I have zero chance of coming out on top of this argument, don't I?” Takao glanced up at Midorima while he fingered the loose stitches dangling from the hem of his shirt.

“There was never any debate to begin with,” Midorima answered, gracefully stepping over the concrete barrier Takao had tripped over. “A firm resolve and a determined soul can do a lot in the nucleus of success, but I don't think you're quite that driven. Not when it comes to me anyway,” Midorima uttered.

“There it is!” Takao pointed at the other boy. “You're not gonna convince me that that's not egotism!” Takao put his head in his hands and groaned. “I've let you get away with too much.”

“I'm...not going to contest that.”

Takao dropped his hands and chortled. “You're the worst, Shin-chan. You know my strengths _and_ my weaknesses, and now you're using the latter to your advantage. Oh! And don't think that I didn't hear you swear earlier. So not only are you exploiting my shortcomings, but you're also a hypocrite, a.k.a the _worst_. The lowest of the low. And what am I? Nothing more than an accomplice. ”

Midorima placed his hand on the top of Takao's head. “You're a comrade, Takao. Albeit a bit mediocre, you're an adequate ally.” He kept his hand braced against Takao's warm skull as they turned down a path that served as a shortcut to their homes.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Takao teased, and closed one eye when Midorima flexed his fingers against his head like a claw in an unspoken warning.

They said nothing more on the walk to the crossroads where they branched in two opposite directions, but Takao was pretty sure— _no he was positive_ —that he had never seen Midorima smile so much in a single day.


	10. Poison Ivy Grows

Several things shifted after that fateful day in the park—the day that Takao won't ever forget because it turned the tides of his relationship with Midorima.

It wasn't easy, weathering Midorima's first year at Teikō, but despite everything he'd believed— _this year is going to be the worst, it's never going to end_ —he survived the storm. He knew that, notwithstanding his determination to make the best of it, Midorima had taken on the lion's share of the drudgery. Not only did he still have his draconian schedule at home, but Teikō was a grueling and demanding experience. On top of that, there was the delicate balance of Takao's feelings and genuine curiosity. It made for an arduous undertaking, and Takao felt conscience-stricken for it. He knew that Midorima had been forced to tiptoe through the delicate threads of a spider's web with an aphid target on his back. He also knew that no matter how hard his best friend tried to avoid being bitten, he could never escape the gossamer threads without injury.

Midorima would never shirk his duties, so he had to learn how to manage his responsibilities _and_ carry the onus of the fraction between them. Which he had until the venom started to swim through his bloodstream and affect his cerebral and cognitive functions.

Summer vacation had mostly consisted of basketball games in the park—and Takao didn't mind if it meant he got to spend time with Midorima, but they had become customary. It was the unforeseeable, the unheralded, that Takao had learned to thrive on. It was what helped him subsist as the days on his calendar drew closer to school's return.

He had jumped at the opportunity to travel to Nakano Broadway to shop for trading cards when Midorima stated that he needed to see if they sold an unusual lucky item. Takao purchased several video games that were on sale and manga that looked interesting enough, while Midorima stocked up on idol merchandise, a variety of key chains, and a CD that he very _obviously_ didn't want Takao to see.What he _should_ have kept tucked away was his receipt— _Where do you even get that much money, Shin-chan?_

After they finished shopping—and a considerable amount of persistent begging on Takao's behalf—they visited an acclaimed ice cream shop. Midorima ordered a three-tiered cone, whereas Takao went big and ordered the treat they were famous for—a cone with eight tiers of soft serve that measured over 40 centimeters tall. Midorima paid for both of their treats despite Takao's many protests. Once Takao's grumbling broke off, they talked about their purchases as they chased the cold layers of soft-serve with their tongues. Midorima asked which flavors Takao had gotten, and Takao happily rattled them off from top to bottom: strawberry, grape, chocolate, matcha, vanilla, coffee milk, banana, and ramune. He realized, after a brief moment, that Midorima had been offhandedly asking for a sample and Takao shoved the cone at him until he stubbornly conceded and ran his spoon through the rainbow of flavors.

Takao had gotten the bike he wanted in November of the previous year, and he would come up with every excuse he could to ride it just so Midorima would have to dig his fingers into his shoulders a little too firmly. It probably would have hurt more if Takao gave it any thought, but having Midorima so close to him was a small price to pay for the bruises that mottled his narrow shoulders.

After that day at Nakano Broadway, Takao often rode them to an ice cream shop not too far from the radial point between their homes. He couldn't explain why watching Midorima eat ice cream was such a meditative experience, but it was, and when Takao dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, the blush that dusted his cheeks made the sugar on Takao's tongue taste all the sweeter.

The first weekend of August brought a variety of summer festivals along with it, and Takao had gone weak in the knees when Midorima agreed to: _check it out_ with him. They played an aggregation of games including _shateki_ , _wanage_ , _kingyo sukui_ , and _ningyo sukui_. Takao wasn't sure if it had anything to do with Midorima's horoscope for the day—a great day for Cancers—or if he was just _that_ good at festival games. He informed Takao, with his arms full of tiny figurines and three bags of goldfish, that he had the small piece of brown stationery tucked away in his back pocket to thank for his good fortune. He had given Takao all of the sweets he had won—which directly contradicted his personal (Aesculapian) ideology—and he planned on surprising his little sister with the bags of varicolored fish.

Midorima visited the tarot card reading booth while Takao sang along with the festival's musicians. After a while, with a look of apprehension mingled with consternation, Midorima consented to his stomach's rumbling. Takao told Midorima to find them a table and practically bounded from one food stall to another until he had enough _karaage_ , _toumorokoshi_ , and _yakitori_ to feed a small army. After he managed to cram two bottles of Ramune between his splayed fingers, he returned to the crowded sector of cheap seats and small tables. Fortunately, it was easy to spot Midorima in large groups of people, and this time had been no exception.

Little space remained on the table for their food due to the number of Midorima's winnings but Takao didn't mind. He had chosen stick-food for a reason. Midorima thanked him after an admonitory look that wordlessly scolded Takao for his choice of food. Despite his disapproval, he implicitly took the offered fare, and before long, Takao and Midorima were both luxuriating in the afterglow of full stomachs and the exuberance of festival glee. Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, Midorima noticed that a nearby stall was selling _wataame_ and managed to procure several empty colorful bags for his many trinkets.

The evening air had been warm and pleasant, thick with smoke and the potent amalgamation of sweet, savory, and everything in between. Takao brushed his fingers against Midorima's as they walked, and the taller boy didn't seem to mind because he never drew away from the contact.

They stopped at a sweets booth, in mutual agreement that they had just enough room left for dessert. Midorima decided on the strawberry shaved ice while Takao went for the choco-banana. _Takao, stop choosing foods that come on sticks, they're unhealthy._ They ate as they moved through the mob of festival attendees but Takao—who admittedly wasn't very observant on most days—realized that Midorima's shoulders were tense and he looked on edge.

It took longer than he would have liked to parse through the list of possibilities for Midorima's discomfort, but when he finally took the green-haired boy's fingers into his hand, Midorima visibly relaxed. Takao recalled this happening one other time—when they were visiting Nakano Broadway and the pathways had become decidedly thick with other individuals. Midorima didn't mind crowds when he was playing basketball, as long as they were in the stands where they belonged. He didn't like to be consumed by them.

Takao managed to get through the large assembly without much difficulty, and when they reached a clearing at the edge of the festival grounds, he heard Midorima exhale a shaky breath.

It was the first time that Midorima had thanked Takao in such a way, by means that felt as though he were appreciating him for much more than saving him from the sharp teeth of an anxiety attack.

It quickly became another item on the list of things that Takao will never forget.

Just like the way Midorima looked beneath the bright variegation of fireworks. Takao had registered the explosion of sound and the fanfare of approval that came from a slight distance away, but he couldn't bring himself to watch the fireworks display because the only thing he ever wanted to stare at had never looked so at peace before.

The first thing he had done when he returned home that night was tape the strip of photos that he'd coerced Midorima into taking at a photo booth directly above the center of his desk.

Winter break didn't bear the fruits of summer but it wasn't all milk-and-water either. Outbreaks of seasonal influenza had risen rapidly and this put Takao in an advantageous position. He had surprised Midorima by popping up outside his window on several occasions during summer, but the seasonal shift had turned it into an impossible feat. This would have been a reasonable cause for Takao to hole himself up in his room and immerse himself in video games, but the rise in sickness meant that Midorima could escape from his home more frequently.

They had planned out a list of things to do, whenever they could manage it, and Takao marveled at how many memories he was making with a boy who didn't even like to return the smiles of kind strangers.

He couldn't dream up a year when he'd been more active. Summer had been animated enough to take the title on its own, but Midorima was surprisingly passionate when it came to excursions and outings.

They visited an outdoor skating rink on a seasonally mild day. It was cold enough to need a jacket but not so frigid as to require gloves. The slippery arena hadn't been very busy when they arrived, which gave Takao plenty of time to get used to the feeling of being on the ice and off of the unfrozen ground. It was something Midorima had chosen to do, so naturally, Takao assumed that he knew how to ice skate. Much to his surprise, however, Midorima looked like an inflexible robot as he inched his way along the ice. Takao tried not to laugh and offered his hand instead, and after only several minutes, he was convinced that the unsteady boy had broken all four of the fingers pressed in his grip.

They indulged in crab that night at Takao's home, legs tucked under a kotatsu, and soft music playing in the backdrop of the room. It was a luxury that happened only once a year; Takao's parents would take a trip to Hokkaido to buy fresh crab from a distinguished local market for a rare feast.

Midorima had grown more accustomed to Takao's parents, and when they extended a limitless invitation to future dinners, he started to show up at Takao's apartment with increasing frequency. Takao never turned down an excuse to see Midorima, so to analyze the excitement he felt every time Midorima phoned him to be let into the building was a moot issue. He did, however, ask Midorima why he hated eating at home so much—to which Midorima replied: _If I have to eat shitty take-out one more time, I think I'll die._

The following week, a winter illumination event took place near Takao's apartment, and it hadn't been a perfect view by any means, but with every light turned off in his room, he and Midorima were bathed in the radiance of imitation stars on strings. Midorima, whose face was stippled in tiny lights, asked Takao if there was anything _he_ wanted to do, and the night ended with him promising to take Takao to Shirakawago village when they were older.

That's around the time he started to wish that he could flip through the pages of a calendar and right into the future.

Takao hadn't regretted anything they'd done up to this point, but his favorite thing to do was subterrestrial compared to the lofty things they did in their spare time. If he had to choose between going out or spending time alone with Midorima in his room, he'd elect the latter in a heartbeat. There was just something _special_ about the time they spent alone.

Winter slowly ebbed into springtide, and the first thaw showed up just in time for spring break. Takao delighted in the fact that they would soon be entering their second year of junior high. It felt like he was reaching the halfway point, that sooner rather than later, he would be moving onto senior high school. And come hell or high water, Takao would be attending the same school as Midorima this time.

Yet, all of this would be an issue for another time because as March came to a close, the weight on Midorima's shoulders caused the contamination of their relationship to seep out of his every pore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter's a bit heavy on the translations but I wanted to keep some of the cultural authenticity of Japanese festivals in here as a nod to Takao and Midorima's heritage. I hope it didn't take you out of the story too much. ★~(◠‿◕✿)
> 
> Festival translations  
> shateki: gun-shooting  
> wanage: ring toss  
> kingyo sukui: goldfish scooping  
> ningyo sukui: toy scooping  
> karaage: japanese-style deep-fried chicken  
> toumorokoshi: grilled corn  
> yakitori: grilled chicken on a stick  
> wataame: cotton candy  
> 


	11. Dracaena

Midorima spent the better part of Teikō's first semester buried in school work and it made seeing him harder than ever. All of the time that they'd spent together over the past year ebbed into an aberrant type of solitude. The weather had warmed but Takao didn't feel that sneaking into Midorima's bedroom was in the cards. It wasn't for fear of failure or being found out—he'd gotten so good at it that he could get the window open from the outside, and he didn't make a sound when he lowered himself into Midorima's room. It was due to something more complicated than toeing lattice and scaling walls. It was the look he saw in Midorima's eyes when they parted at the end of spring break.

It felt like being on the end of a bad signal and Takao was forcibly left to interpret the words he didn't catch through the thick buzz of static. When enough time passed, Takao felt like he had burned the only bridge that kept them connected, and he started to fear that if he didn't do something soon, he would no longer be able to see through the smoke.

So on the day before Midorima's birthday, Takao braved the sticky night and the possibility of running into Shōgo or his brother. He ran through the lamp-lit streets, his sneakers pounding against blacktop and indiscriminate bits of loose asphalt. He ran as if he were trying to outrun the wind, and before long, he made his way into the green-haired boy's bedroom. This particular arrival was a far cry from the first night he'd successfully opened the window on his own and dropped from Midorima's ceiling to the floor. No stray objects were flying at his head, and he was exempt from the inundation of repeated diatribes against his sudden appearance.

“Hello, Takao,” Midorima said from the bed without having to confirm whose presence suddenly split the room in two.

“Shin-chan,” Takao acknowledged, kicking off his sneakers. “That a new book?” He walked over to Midorima's bed and sat down on its edge when the other boy absentmindedly shifted his feet to make more room.

“Mhm,” Midorima hummed and turned the page.

“What's it about?”

Midorima lowered the book a fraction and arched an eyebrow. “I know you didn't come over to play book club.” His eyes shifted to Takao's hands where he was currently digging a piece of dirt out from beneath his fingernail. “Something's bothering you. What is it?”

Midorima pushed himself up from his supine position and into sitting. He closed his book and Takao was able to glimpse something about medicine on its cover. He shifted his gaze back to Midorima, only to find two piercing green eyes staring back at him.

“Your eyes look greener at night,” Takao blurted. Then he shook his head and sprung off the end of Midorima's bed as if he'd sat on a nest of snakes. “Ah, shit. I'm nervous.”

“Takao...” Midorima drawled, concern delineating his features. “What is it? Did Haizaki get to you again?”

Takao waved his hand dismissively. “No, it's nothing like that. I just need to talk to you about something and I don't really know where to start.” Midorima looked startled and Takao couldn't help but laugh. “Oh, come on, it's not that shocking, is it?”

“I would compare your struggling to speak to me missing a three-point shot. They're inherent characteristics, and you've been a blabbermouth since the day we met.”

“No need to call a spade a spade here, Shin-chan,” Takao needled.

He didn't realize that he was pacing the floor until Midorima slid out of bed and firmly took his shoulders into his hands. “Stop that. You're going to wake my parents.”

“They're actually home?” Takao replied, unable to hide his surprise.

Midorima nodded and finally released his biting grip on Takao's shoulders. “Now, tell me what's going on.”

Takao exhaled a long, winded breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, but can you like, sit down first? I feel anxious enough and you towering over me isn't helping.”

Midorima eyed him suspiciously but made his way back over to his bed where he took up a customarily rigid stance.

“Do you think I'll ever catch up to you? I feel like you're this sky-scraping tree and I'm just this little bush begging not to be stepped on.”

Midorima crossed his arms over his chest and the look that passed over his face was one of exasperation.

“Okay, okay.” Takao inhaled a deep breath. “So I think I'm onto something, and I want you to hear me out because I know how you are and I don't want you butting in.” Takao tried not to laugh when he noticed Midorima's eyebrows drawing together. “You've been...different lately. Well, not just lately but for a while. I know we're getting older and all that, and maybe you're not doing the five-knuckle shuffle as often as you should,” Takao said hurriedly, not noticing the look of sheer terror on Midorima's face. “I just know that you've been trying to take the brunt of everything because—I really hope I'm not wrong about this because I'm going to look like an idiot if I am.” Takao took another breath. “I know you feel bad about going to Teikō.”

Takao started to pace again before he realized what he was doing. He stopped after a brief moment, feeling winded by how much breath had left his lungs at once. He shook out his hands and rolled his shoulders before continuing. “I know that you've been trying to keep me busy because you don't want me going back to the way I was when I first found out. I know that things have been really hard for you and that I've been incredibly selfish. I know that the reason you don't want to do the things that we did before is that you're tired. I know... Well, I don't _know_...but I think that you're starting to get overwhelmed. Maybe that's not the best word for it because you've always been kind of neurotic and stressed-out is like your middle name but...”

“Takao!” Midorima said, loud enough to break Takao's chain of thought but not so loud as to wake his parents.

Takao snapped his head up as if he were caught napping and met Midorima's stare. “What?”

Midorima exhaled a breath that Takao physically watched leave his lungs by the shift of his chest. He pushed his glasses up his nose with both of his hands, something Takao had only ever seen him do in serious situations.

“I'm not the best person to place in conditions such as these but...” He took off his glasses entirely and rubbed at his temples. “I think I can appreciate what you're getting at.”

“You can?” Takao asked, bewildered.

“Should I not?” Midorima squinted in the direction of a houseplant in the corner of his room, appearing as confused as Takao had sounded.

“No, no, I want you to. I mean, I want you to know that I'm trying to fix things. I came here intending to tell you that you can give it a rest.” Takao smiled softly. “I'll be okay. I've grown a lot, thanks to you. Maybe not in height, but I've learned how to stop being so needy,” he said, laughing a little breathier than he would have liked to.

Midorima simply bowed his head as if he didn't know how to respond, and Takao knew him well enough to understand that he probably couldn't.

“And just so you know...I, um...I'm here for you. Like if you ever need to talk about anything.”

Midorima cleared his throat and nodded in a gesture of brief acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

Takao stepped forward and took Midorima's face into his hands. “I'm right in front of you, Shin-chan. You keep narrowing your eyes at your plant and I think you're starting to give it a complex.”

Midorima looked up at Takao and smiled, and Takao's heart nearly broke right through the cages of his chest. It was hard to believe how much time had passed since he'd last seen him so near-at-hand. His eyes were clear and uninterrupted by glass, his skin clean and free of the occasional acne that would show up on Takao's chin. His mouth looked soft, and when he exhaled a breath Takao could feel ghost over his wrists he swore he could make out the vague scent of spearmint. And in that second, he felt something spread through his body that he'd never felt before.

He quickly took a step back and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “So, the other reason I came here was to find out what you wanted to do tomorrow. I get why you've been spending more time at home lately, I just thought with it being your birthday and all...” Takao trailed off, missing how each of his words was spoken nervously.

Midorima fumbled blindly for his glasses, and after several seconds of patting down the bed, he pushed them back onto his face. For some reason, Takao tasted jealousy, and it felt like just looking at Midorima was trouble. Yet, this feeling wasn't new to him. It felt like it had been trouble from the start. Still and all, he knew that it was stupid to be jealous of an inanimate object simply because he longed to be the one to have control over it.

“My birthday is tomorrow?” Midorima furrowed his brow and muttered something Takao couldn't quite make out.

“What are you asking me for?” Takao said, laughing. But shortly after, the sound of his amusement faded, almost as quickly as it had come, and he grew serious. “This is what I mean. You're spreading yourself thin. The Shin-chan I know practically has the days of the week stamped across his forehead. You need to take a break. Stress is bad for the heart, you know,” he parodied.

“I know. I just need to get through these next two weeks. Then it'll be summer vacation and I'll be able to...take some of the weight off.”

“You're already a string bean, Shin-chan. I don't think a diet is what you should be aiming for.” Takao hoped he could add some levity to the situation, and while the corner of Midorima's mouth twitched, there was an unfamiliar lack of warmth in his gaze. Takao immediately backtracked and opted for an alternative route. “So why don't we start slow? Take things one day at a time.”

Midorima looked as if he were contemplating the idea, and Takao couldn't cut through the silence because he was too distracted by the way Midorima was tugging his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Can we start now?” Midorima finally asked, and Takao thought he could feel the skip in the other boy's pulse by proxy.

“Sure. What do you want to do?”

“I think it's what I'd like for my birthday.”

Takao didn't like the way Midorima wouldn't face him, didn't know how to read the flush that had colored the contours of his cheeks.

“Shoot,” Takao managed despite the fire burning in his chest. He almost missed his cue entirely because he was too busy staring at the cluster of freckles that dotted Midorima's nose. They were much lighter than they used to be when they were younger, but still visible nonetheless.

“May I...rest my head in your lap for a little while?”

Takao watched Midorima's fingers twist over each other in such a way that he could feel knots forming in the low of his belly. He swallowed thickly and watched the tinge of pink on Midorima's cheeks spread to a deep shade of red. His brain scrambled to make a joke that started with _you_ and ended in _Christmas tree,_ but Takao couldn't carve the witticism out of his head and into sound.

“It was a stupid thing to ask. I shouldn't have...” Midorima started, and it was just enough to pull Takao out of his reverie.

“Are you kidding? Who am I to refuse when I used to jump at the chance to throw my limbs at you?”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I'm standing here.” Takao didn't like how nervous his reply had sounded but if Midorima noticed, he didn't address it. He hastily retraced the steps he took upon his arrival and plopped down on the bed, all while trying to ignore how unsteady his legs felt.

It took a moment for Midorima to move, but when he did there was an awkward junction of readjustment because Midorima's legs kept dangling over the edge of his bed. When he finally planted his head in Takao's lap, Takao knew what it felt like to sit as unyielding as Midorima did daily. Usually relaxed and in poor posture, Takao suddenly didn't want to move a muscle for fear that he might disintegrate on the spot. He felt like a tower desecrated by time and fit to crumble at the slightest change in the wind.

He had done this with Midorima in the past when they were kids, before he'd lost his front teeth and his baby blanket still covered his feet, and he hadn't thought twice about it. However, they weren't as young as they were then, and something about Midorima's head in his lap made his heart beat all the way down to the bend of his knees.

He just didn't know _why_ —

Or perhaps, this time, he just couldn't bring himself to fully realize it.


	12. Stormy Horizons

For a while, things stayed on the far side of normalcy, and just when it seemed impossible to ameliorate the condition of Midorima's laborious schedule, things began to improve. They weren't quite as active as they were the year before but it didn't matter because Takao didn't need crowds and lights and shopping centers to make him happy. All he needed was Midorima, and the green-eyed boy was content to spend time in his bedroom as often as he could slip away from home.

They spent the holidays together like they usually did, but it wasn't until after the new year and just before spring break that Takao started to notice how much Midorima's compulsive behaviors had worsened. If Takao left the volume on his CD player at 13, Midorima would have to adjust the dial to 12 or 14. He would double and triple-check his belongings. He would count the steps that led up to Takao's apartment, and he would always knock three times on the door, even if Takao was already there to answer it. The worst, however, was how he had started scrubbing his hands raw—for fear of germs or due to an adopted ritualistic behavior, or both, Takao wasn't sure.

Furthermore, he was almost afraid to ask.

After one particularly bad hand-washing incident, Takao kept stealing glimpses at Midorima out of the corner of his eye. He was hoping to find a noteworthy connotation through careful observation, some kind of signification that would give way to Midorima's exacerbated condition. Of course, Midorima hadn't lost his keen sense of perception, and while Takao wished for obliviousness, the other boy's intuition remained unblemished.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Midorima asked, his fingers shifting through a thin stack of notes.

“What? I'm not staring at you.”

“You've been glancing at me for the past” –Midorima checked his watch– “twenty-three minutes.”

Takao sighed and kicked his legs over the side of his bed. “All right, fine. I have, but only because I'm worried about you.”

Midorima looked startled for a moment, and his fingers stilled on the papers scattered in front of him. “Oh, I'm doing it again, aren't I?”

Takao furrowed his brow and bit the inside of his cheek. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together between his knees. “Doing what?”

“Talking to myself,” Midorima answered unexpectedly.

“Oh, no. You've been talking to yourself for so many years that it's background noise at this point.” Takao noticed the look of disapproval that passed over Midorima's face and laughed. “Well, it's true! You've been muttering to yourself about this, that, and the other, since we were like...eight.”

“If that's not it, what is it then?” Midorima lost interest in his notes entirely and turned to face Takao directly.

Takao wet his lips and pressed his elbows into the bony jut of his knees. He couldn't keep his gaze from shifting to Midorima's red, dry, and cracked hands. “You've been a little more obsessive, and compulsive, lately...” He shifted and sat back just enough that Midorima tracked the motion. “Like, here's neurotic,” he raised his right hand above his head, “and here's manic,” he let his left hand hover near his waist. “You're somewhere in the middle, and to be honest, it's kind of freaking me out.”

When Takao finished speaking, Midorima regarded him with an inscrutable expression, but Takao could see hurt choke the lights of his eyes.

“No, I don't mean that in a bad way! I just meant that it's bothering me because we had this whole conversation before your birthday about something upsetting you, and now I feel like it's happening all over again. I just don't want to let things get as...” Takao gestured aimlessly like a child left to flounder about in the water.

Midorima pressed his lips together and Takao watched a crease settle along his brow. “Do your parents ever say anything about me coming over here? They have to know by now that I'm not here by my parents' permission.”

Takao allowed himself to be sidetracked by the question and dropped down to the floor next to Midorima. “Oh, yeah. They know. But my parents think your parents are too strict. They think that kids, as long as they're staying out of trouble, should get to be kids.” Takao bent his knees and pressed his feet together. “My mom thinks that your mom needs to get the stick out of her ass.” Takao abruptly slapped a hand over his mouth as if he could call back the truth he didn't mean for Midorima to hear.

To Takao's surprise and utter disbelief, however, Midorima huffed a breath of laughter. “That's hardly the most offensive thing I've heard come out of your mouth, Takao.” He straightened the papers on the floor until their edges were in perfect alignment. “My parents can be a little difficult to get along with. They're good people and they mean well. They just have a habit of letting business get in the way of less...ceremonious functions if you will.”

Takao shifted and let his knee rest against Midorima's thigh. “I'll never forget the way you acted when you first came here. It was like you had fallen asleep and woken up on a different planet.” Takao leaned against the support of his bed and let his head fall back against the mattress. “That feels like ages ago now, doesn't it?”

Midorima hummed in agreement, and after a pregnant pause, he cleared his throat. “I feel like something bad is coming, Takao.”

“Bad like how?” Takao pivoted his head against his mattress and looked at Midorima. “Like something superstitious?”

Midorima shook his head. “No. I don't know how to explain it.” He flattened a curling edge of the tape on his middle finger. “I keep having this dream where I'm in a body of water that stretches beyond what the eye can see. I keep swimming for the surface, gasping for air, but I can't breathe. But I keep trying until I finally sink like a stone and everything fades to black. Then I wake up and there's nothing more to it, except it _feels_ like there should be.”

Takao worried his bottom lip between his teeth, his brow furrowed in thought. “Do you think it's symbolic? They say that dreams are manifestations of what we're feeling, right? Maybe you're feeling smothered. I knew you should have come to Hiroki with me. I think Teikō's trying to kill you,” Takao quipped, nudging Midorima in the side with his elbow.

Midorima smiled softly but it felt far from genuine and Takao knew that it was only meant to appease him.

Takao had been eagerly anticipating their final year of junior high but Midorima always glossed over the topic like it was something unpalatable. Every time Takao tried talking to Midorima about Teikō, it was as if he was broaching an unwelcome subject, like he was swimming too close to shark-infested waters. Midorima knew how Takao had felt at the start of things, and he thought maybe it was Midorima's way of protecting him, but he wasn't so convinced now.

“Mom is making _okonomiyaki_ for dinner. Why don't you stay?” Takao pressed his shoulder a little closer to Midorima's own. “Maybe the bad feeling you're getting is from all that shitty take-out you've had to eat. Maybe you've developed a peptic ulcer or something. That's a thing, right?”

Midorima's mouth morphed into a crooked smile. “Yes, Takao. Perhaps.”

“It's settled then! You'll stay for dinner, and in exchange, you'll help me with my math homework.” Takao shoved himself off of the floor and clapped his hands together decidedly. “I'll go tell my parents that you're staying.” He bolted from his room but he couldn't miss the low drawl of his name framed in warning as he trotted down the hallway.

And while he didn't feel the same aura of impending doom that Midorima did, he couldn't shake the kaleidoscope of butterflies from his stomach at the idea that Midorima wasn't telling him everything. If nothing else, Midorima's behavioral compulsions had worsened, and that alone was enough to make Takao bite at his nails. He liked to think that he could read Midorima in the same likeness that Midorima no longer had to confirm Takao's presence because he just _knew_.

That is why, when he returned to his room, his stomach was tied up in knots. He didn't know how it came to him all of a sudden, couldn't name the catalyst, but when he spotted Midorima in the same place he'd left him, the truth sidelined him. He didn't know how he missed it before, but all at once everything became painfully clear, and he felt that the earmarks of Midorima's imminent mental collapse were staring him in the face.

_Seeing_ , however, even with his range of sight and adopted perception, wouldn't be enough to stonewall the storm that was building beyond the horizon.

They were going to need shelter.


	13. Scars Deeper Than The Ocean

The last year of junior high had begun in the same fashion as the previous years, and things stayed fairly mundane until just before winter break.

Takao was well aware of Midorima's skill on the court, he'd been watching him play for years and he wasn't ashamed to admit that the green-haired boy was his idol. He had set out to join Midorima on the court one day, had shamelessly written the goal on his calendar in stark red ink. To those who knew him, none of this was a surprise. He wasn't prepared, however, for the crushing defeat that his team suffered when Hiroki went head-to-head with Teikō. Takao had spent so much time exclusively watching Midorima that he'd missed— _almost forgotten_ —that Midorima only represented _part_ of the team.

And while the overwhelming defeat hurt in ways he didn't expect, it didn't change the way Takao felt about his best friend. He tracked Midorima down and invited him over for dinner, and even allowing for the obscurity of his reflective lenses, Takao could see surprise swimming across the estuary of Midorima's gaze.

Takao bid his team farewell but he hadn't missed the individual expressions of confusion, incredulity, and even anger as he disappeared under the umbrella of an evening sky with Midorima. He knew what they were feeling and he understood, but Takao also knew that losing was essential to success— _the more you lose the more you want to win_. More importantly, Takao was taught that defeat wasn't admissible until the underdog stopped fighting, and Takao was far from giving up. His loss was only a minor setback, and he wasn't about to dwell on it. He was going to learn from it.

“Man, I'd heard about the Generation of Miracles, and everybody talks about Teikō, but I didn't expect _all_ of it to be true. You guys are on an entirely different level. Is that why you never wanted me to go to your games? If you wanted to surprise me, it worked. I feel like I've been bushwhacked or caught with my hand in the cookie jar or something. I never expected you guys to be so merciless!”

“It was actually the opposite,” Midorima said, almost solemnly.

“What?” Takao turned to look at him and saw the street lamps reflecting off of Midorima's glasses.

“The reason why I didn't want you to come to my games. I was afraid that you wouldn't want to play against me.”

“Are you kidding? I mean yeah, it sucked, getting crushed like that, and I think that I might cry about it later but I have adrenaline for days running through me right now. We finally got to play together. I honestly felt like it was never gonna happen.” Takao smiled brightly and clapped Midorima on the back. “You guys are monsters though! I can't even pick who I'm most intimidated by.”

Midorima's body tensed beneath Takao's hand, and regardless of Takao's boundless energy and nascent hyperactivity, he couldn't help but notice how paradoxical Midorima's behavior was considering his anomalous position as an undefeated titleholder.

“Hey, what's up with you? I know you're not really one to paint the town red or anything but you're giving off extra cool cat vibes, even for you.”

“Did you see where Scorpio placed today?” Midorima asked him, his eyes slanted sideways to observe Takao's reaction.

“You know I don't pay a lot of attention to that stuff.” Takao shrugged his shoulders, but suddenly his heart seemed to trip over its next beat and he nearly lost his footing. “Wait a minute, you check my horoscope too?”

“Of course,” Midorima said simply, as if this news wasn't worth the way Takao's heartstrings were unraveling in his chest. “I can't have you dampening my luck on days when Scorpios and Cancers should keep their distance.” He waved his hand in an unstated gesture of unimportance and continued forward, in step and speech. “You placed first today. I thought that maybe...” Midorima trailed off and looked up at the sky with a divided air of melancholic fondness.

“Maybe?” Takao encouraged, now frowning.

Midorima stalled and turned to face Takao directly. “Open your bag.”

Takao furrowed his brow but let the bag on his shoulder slip down his arm. He fell into a crouch and began unzipping the main compartment but Midorima quickly intervened.

“The front pocket,” he supplemented.

Takao bit the inside of his cheek, absentmindedly succumbing to the recent fetters of habit, and unzipped the front pocket of his gym bag. He didn't usually keep anything in the small compartment so it was easy to spot the long red ribbon nestled against the inner pouch. Takao ran his fingers over the satin material and looked up at Midorima, a crease wrinkling the line of his brow. “What's this?”

“Your lucky item. I was hoping that maybe it would be enough.” Midorima suddenly looked uncomfortable and forced his stillness into motion.

Takao hastily shoved the ribbon down into his bag, tugged the zipper back into place, and jumped to his feet. “Enough for what?” He laughed but the expression of amusement sounded strange to his ears. “Shin-chan,” he slung the bag over his shoulder and ran to catch up to Midorima. He placed a hand on the taller boy's shoulder and bodily turned him around. “You're not exactly making sense here. That or I'm having an exceptionally bad off-day, but my gut tells me that this isn't on me for once.”

Midorima stared at Takao until Takao's skin started to crawl with prickles of discomfort and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He begged for something to break the thick chord of tension between them, and finally, Midorima exhaled a shaky breath. “Can we get back to your place first? I'd rather not talk about this here.”

“Sure thing, Shin-chan.” Takao bumped his shoulder against Midorima's arm.

They walked together in the direction of the subway in silence until Takao couldn't take the dead air and lack of communication any longer. He cleared his throat and inadvertently brushed his fingers against the back of Midorima's taped hand. “So...about what you said earlier...” he initiated, then paused, and when Midorima didn't say anything he felt it was safe to continue. “You said that you watch for days when we're not aligned or whatever, but you've never canceled our plans. So either we're really lucky or you defy Oha Asa's advice and hang out with me anyway, which in that case, I should be sitting down.”

“Shut up, Takao. We're almost to our destination.”

“Hey, you can't have a destination without destiny so I'm right on topic here.”

“That's not...” Midorima shook his head and cut around a large group of garrulous pedestrians. “How have you made it this far without suffering critical damage?”

“Tricks of the trade, I guess,” Takao said, shrugging. “I'm an expert in euphemisms and the art of scraping by.”

“Takao, you're the dumbest smart person I know.”

“You know what? Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment.” Takao smiled and Midorima sighed and everything felt entirely normal, save for the fact that Midorima was suppressing information so great that it had to wait until they got to Takao's residence.

If closing the distance from _here_ to _there_ had been illustrated in sutures, the whorls on their map should have been sewn tight, but Takao felt as if he was nursing a gaping wound that was bleeding all over his floor by the time they were tucked into the safety of his room.

“Okay, spill. I can't take the tension anymore, Shin-chan. What are these secrets you've been harboring?” Takao dropped his bag onto the floor before immediately flopping down on his bed.

“I think I'm starting to hate basketball,” Midorima blurted.

Takao hadn't been expecting the confession to come so fast, and he certainly hadn't been expecting one of such magnitude. He pulled himself into sitting, his fingers digging in against the edge of his mattress for additional support. “What are you talking about? You're _amazing_. How could you hate something you're so good at? You're a natural. I mean they don't call you a prodigy for nothing! I'd give anything to be as good as you.” Midorima arched an eyebrow and Takao felt heat blossom across his cheeks. “So I'm a bit of a fangirl...but can you blame me?”

“Wouldn't you be a fanboy?”

“I like to feel fancy sometimes,” Takao said and kicked off his socks. He didn't care if Midorima knew how he felt about his talent, but it was the level of admiration he'd shown for him that made him want to hide the shade of pink that dusted his cheeks.

Midorima shook his head and gently placed his bag down next to the door. “I'm going to go wash my hands.”

“Stop right there,” Takao warned. “You don't get to spout something like that and run off like it's nothing. I know something is going on with you. I knew it when you went all week without saying” –Takao pretended to push glasses up his nose– “ _man proposes, God disposes,_ ” he parodied perfectly. “You haven't been yourself since this year started and I think it has something to do with Teikō. Also, why do I feel like we've had this conversation like a million times? You shouldn't be this troubled all the time. You're supposed to save all of this heavy shit for when you get old.”

Midorima hung his head but Takao could make out the faint twitch of a smile on his lips. “Aka–”

“–shingō,” Takao finished. “Stop trying to make this about me and get on with it, or I won't let you leave this room.”

Takao half-expected Midorima to take the threat as a challenge, but he exhaled a breath that moved through his whole body instead.

“That's interesting coming from someone who always tries to make everything about my school.”

Takao opened his mouth, then closed it again. He poked his tongue between his lips, wetting the chapped tissue before carefully selecting what he wanted to say. “Am I wrong?”

Midorima looked like he was picking at the bones between the truth and fabrication. After a brief moment, he raised his head and looked Takao in the eye. “No, you're not.” Takao parted his lips to make a winning remark but Midorima raised his hand to silence him. “But it isn't the school itself. It's the basketball team.”

Takao nodded and scooted to the edge of his bed. He pushed his feet flat against the floor, legs apart, and pressed his elbows in against the curve of his knees like he always did when he was forcing his hyperactivity into focus. “So what's so bad about the team? Is it your coach? Is he working you too hard?” Takao shook his head in dissent before Midorima could answer. “No, that can't be it. You're the kind of weirdo who thrives on hard work.”

Midorima huffed a breath of laughter before his features shifted back into an expression of seriousness. “I truly wish that you'd let this go.” He noticed Takao's tenacious expression and rolled his eyes. “But since I know how you are and I'm the one who brought this up, I have no other choice but to tell you.”

Midorima paced the room several times before decidedly planting himself in Takao's desk chair stiffly. “I'm—it's getting hard to...” Midorima sighed in frustration, and it was easier than usual to discern that he hated being unable to find the words he was searching for. “I don't agree with how the team is playing anymore.”

Takao waited for a moment, his body physically leaning forward as he stared at Midorima intently. “And...” he drawled, lilting the word into a question.

Midorima looked as defeated as he'd sounded only seconds ago. “Why is it that no one else can read me this easily?”

Takao laughed and clapped his hands together between his knees. “To be fair, I don't think people are as willing as I am to get close to you. You kind of have this intimidating I-hate-you-stay-far-away-from-me vibe.”

Midorima crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “Do you remember who Akashi is?”

“Akashi? That's the redhead you like to play Chinese checkers with, right? The one with crazy eyes?” Midorima gave him a stilted look. “I know, I know. I'm just pulling your leg. Yes, I know who he is.”

“He didn't have crazy eyes until recently,” Midorima said before his frown deepened. “He doesn't have _crazy eyes_. He has a condition called heterochromia. It doesn't matter. His eyes have nothing to do with the topic of this conversation.”

“Wait though, are you telling me that this guy just popped a new eye color out of the blue? Is that even possible? I thought you had to be born with a condition like that.” Takao ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, sorry, I'm getting off track. So what's Akashi got to do with this? Did he make new changes to the team or something?”

Midorima worried the bottom line of his mouth between the edges of his teeth. “Not exactly. He and Murasakibara got into an argument the other day and...things have been different since then.” Midorima knit his brows together. “This is forcing me to agree with Kuroko and I don't like it.”

Takao guffawed and held his hands over his stomach. “You're so petty, Shin-chan! Is that what's bothering you the most?” Takao made an inarticulate noise between a grunt and a sniff. “'Cause I have to tell you, you're bound to agree with people you don't like sometimes.”

Midorima looked irritated and rose from Takao's chair so quickly that caused the laughter on Takao's lips to trickle into worried silence. Before he could speak, however, Midorima reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged it up high enough that Takao could make out the fading line of what must have been a deep slash.

“What's that from?” Takao asked, feeling like he was on the receiving end of some kind of sick joke. Yet, he knew better because he was the one who was known for spitting puns and one-liners like drops of rain before the downpour. Midorima never said anything he didn't mean.

Midorima looked as if he regretted showing Takao the paling injury. He lowered his shirt and pretended distraction as he needlessly smoothed over a piece of tape on his thumb.

“Shin-chan,” Takao warned, rising from the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

“We all have limits that determine our practice schedules. If we fail the tasks we're appointed or make too many mistakes, Akashi...”

Takao could feel his face draw into a look of sheer horror and disgust. “Are you saying that _he_ did that to you?” Takao yanked up Midorima's shirt before he could intercede. He observed the straight line of red that contrasted with Midorima's complexion and inadvertently reached out to run his fingers over the welt-like ridge of flesh. Midorima sucked in a hiss of breath between his teeth and Takao recoiled as if he'd been burned. “Does it still hurt?”

Midorima shook his head, and if under different, less disturbing circumstances, Takao would have noticed the flush rising from the smooth column of Midorima's throat up to the contours of his cheeks.

“Your hands are cold,” Midorima supplied, his voice slipping in volume.

Takao had reflexively dropped Midorima's shirt when he subtracted himself from the convoluted equation, but he didn't have to transpose the magnitude from one side to the other to solve the allegorical statement. His gaze hovered over the spot that was sure to scar, his eyes burning holes through the fabric of Midorima's shirt.

“This isn't about the criterion of gameplay or sportsmanship or...or the difference of fucking principles. This is about _abuse_ ,” Takao spat, his words rising in volume as his hands began to shake. “You have to know that. You do, right?” His voice cracked and he wanted to blame it on puberty but he could feel tears building in the corners of his eyes. Only this time, they weren't formed from sadness or disappointment or sequestered shame, they were forged from rage.

“I need to wash my hands,” Midorima said, a shiver cutting into his tone.

Takao gaped at Midorima in disbelief, pain outlining his features. “You wanted me to win. That's why you... But why? What would that have changed? If that _psycho_ hurts you during practice, what the fuck would he have done to you if you'd lost the game?”

“Takao,” Midorima said calmly.

“No! This isn't okay, Shin-chan! You can't just let him get away with this!” Takao tugged at his hair and began to ambulate in short paces around his room. He could hear his throat betraying him, could feel tears making tracks down his face, but he didn't have the strength to pull himself together. “What the fuck did he use anyway? That's not like a slap on the wrist or-or a... _fuck,_ I don't know, but you don't just fucking get to scar people because you disapprove of their behavior or actions.”

“It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have...” Midorima started but Takao was already shaking his head.

“It does matter. It matters a whole fucking lot. He doesn't have a right to hurt you just because... _what_? He's on some kind of power trip or he feels like just because he's the captain that you're his property or something?”

“He has a lot going on at home.” Midorima must have recognized the look of discontentment on Takao's face because he hastened his speech before he was interrupted again. “I'm not making excuses for him but I _know_ Akashi. I'd even go so far as to say that I know him better than the rest of the team. This isn't like him. Something facilitated his transformation and I believe that what happened with Murasakibara was the catalyst, not the main cause.”

Takao angrily swept his fingertips over the tears on his cheeks. “That stills sounds like a fucking excuse to me, Shin-chan. He carved his fucking memory into your stomach. Nothing can excuse that.”

Midorima lowered his eyes to the floor and Takao took advantage of the moment to grossly wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve. “This isn't like you. I know you like to avoid conflict but you don't let people take advantage of you. So why him? Do you have feelings for him or something?”

Midorima snapped his head up and looked at Takao in a way that he never had before. It took Takao a moment to realize what he'd said; when he did, he felt his stomach churn and he had to swallow down the urge to vomit.

“Fuck. I didn't mean that. I'm just upset for you and I...” Takao waved his hand helplessly and felt the onset of a panic attack threatening to take hold. “Shit,” he said, laughing nervously.

“Do _you_?” Midorima uttered suddenly.

“What? Have to shit? Or do I have feelings for Akashi? Because I have to say, now isn't really the time to be asking me that, Shin-chan.” Takao quipped. But he knew what Midorima was asking, knew that he was digging himself a hole so deep that he wouldn't be able to climb out of it _with_ help. Left to his own devices, he was nothing more than a nervous wreck who had a bad habit of running off at the mouth whenever he was given the opportunity. And now seemed like a perfect opportunity, except that, it wasn't. There was never going to _be_ a perfect opportunity for a conversation like this and it was making Takao feel like his entire world was caving in.

Midorima, who had always been his support—the only thing left standing even when everything else had tumbled down around him—was now the reason everything was falling apart and Takao didn't know how to handle it.

On top of everything, Takao knew that things between them had shifted; they'd been shifting since some time ago. Every touch seemed to carry more weight as they got older, every glimpse seemed more intimate, more invasive, but gladly received. But knowing that there might be a glimmer of hope in the darkest recesses of his mind wasn't enough to waylay the fear that clawed through his heart.

Takao clutched at the front of his shirt and sunk down to the floor, his legs no longer able to hold the weight bearing down on his shoulders. He looked up at Midorima but it was hard to see him clearly with his eyes full of tears. He thought that maybe it was better this way, and he tried to manipulate the stupid compulsive part inside of him into believing that he'd already run off the rails a long time ago, that there was nothing left to lose anymore. But he had everything to lose, and Takao knew that. He knew that this could cost him every little thing that he cared about. Yet, like every other dumb and impulsive decision he made, he dove headfirst into waters he didn't know the depth of.

“I've been in love with you since we were like...fucking six,” Takao confessed. He felt like he was choking, not on the wet tension cloying in the back of his throat but the words that were cutting through the silence like an unspoken threat. “I didn't even know what being in love meant. I just knew that I felt it whenever I was with you and I didn't want to feel that way with anyone else.” Takao gasped and curled his fist tighter around the fabric in his hand. “You're it for me, Shin-chan. You're...I'm just...so fucking _sorry_.”

Takao felt like he was drowning in the silence—but this was what he got for going off the deep end without gauging the craggy rocks below, for trusting his instincts, for jumping the gun when the bullet was aimed at the back of his head. It was what he deserved. He just wasn't prepared to deal with the weight of it at that very moment.

“Why are you sorry?” Midorima asked, and Takao was sure that he dreamed it because _why would he still be here?_ But then Midorima was crouching in front of him and Takao felt all of the breath in his lungs leave him at once. He reached out and buried his shaky hands in Midorima's shirt for something to hold onto.

“I—I don't know. I'm sorry for forcing this on you. I'm sorry for being such a fucking freak. I'm sorry for not being sorry enough,” Takao babbled aimlessly.

“The only thing you should be sorry for is not giving me a chance to speak.” Midorima dropped to his knees and wrapped his long arms around Takao's trembling shoulders. “Which is what we need to do when you're in the right frame of mind to hold a conversation.”

A thousand questions were threading in and out of the panic and the hysteria burning up Takao's mind, but all he could do was fall into the comfort of Midorima's arms and cry through years of repressed emotion.

He wanted to put his trust in optimism, but it was too early to put his hand on that of hope.


	14. Sweetest Sadness

The inevitable happened not long after Takao's tears finally stopped flowing and the damp of his cheeks had dried to a transparent concretion. His cheeks were chapped, his eyes were burning and sore, and his chest ached as it had after a bad bout of the flu several years previous. He allowed Midorima to help him up from the floor and sit him down on his bed, and he did so regardless of how badly he wanted to flee from his room and never come back. Midorima took him by surprise, however, when he calmly assumed sole responsibility for the conversation. He told Takao everything he needed to hear, the kind of details that Takao had conceptualized but hadn't known; come to find out, he'd been wrong about several crucial details.

Takao listened to Midorima talk as if he were a prophet of his own misfortune. He listened intently, kept his lips pressed firmly together in an attempt to quash his inherent need to put in his two cents, and didn't fidget once. Anyone who knew Takao would have seen this as some kind of miracle, especially considering the magnitude of the situation. But Takao knew that he had no choice in the matter if he wanted to be there to witness how things stacked up at the end of the day.

And as if Midorima's truth was capable of scraping the sky, Takao stood with his neck angled back to gaze up at the stars with an undefined feeling of awe because he couldn't align Midorima's beliefs with his own incredulity. The element of possibility was hurling past Takao like a missile but he couldn't shake the precursors of nihilism from his thoughts.

Yet, he had been allowed to sneak into Midorima's bedroom the following day as though nothing had changed between them—and truthfully, it really hadn't. Not in the ways that Takao had lost sleep over, at least. Of course, Takao had gained a few meaningful pieces to the puzzle that was Midorima, but his confession hadn't impacted their relationship in the way that he'd feared. And if there had been any devastation worth noting, it was collateral damage and nothing more.

Takao learned that Midorima didn't know much about relationships and up until Takao's confession, he hadn't thought much about being in one. He told Takao that he had thought himself asexual, aromatic, or maybe both, but that if he were to develop feelings for someone, it wouldn't matter _who_ as long as they maintained a level of respect and understanding for his bizarre habits. In other words, Midorima wasn't against being in a same-sex relationship with someone sympathetic to his habits and accepting of his polarizing personality. Furthermore, Takao's friendship meant much more to him than his sexual orientation, and quite frankly, in Midorima's own words: _I'm quite offended that you thought otherwise._

Things slipped back into normalcy, and the dreamer in Takao believed that the traveling light that chased him in his dreams was no longer a falling star. His constellations were in order, aligned with social obligations and the requirements of his age, and even though Polaris always led him back to Midorima, it burned in promise and not despair.

That's not to say that Takao no longer wished that things were different. He was content with the way things were, especially after facing his worst fear and coming out on the other side without having to contrive to mend the wreckage of his life. But he still longed for the freedom of expression that belonged to the couples in his favorite mangas. He wanted to hold Midorima's hand and kiss him on the mouth just to see if his lips were really as soft as they appeared to be. He wanted to run his fingers through Midorima's hair and rub his back until he fell asleep in his arms. He _wanted_ all the time, and most days he could repress his desires and inhibit his imagination from wandering, but some times were harder than others.

Like the night he practically dumped himself into Midorima's bedroom and had to hide in his closet when Midorima's mother came knocking about the sudden noise. Midorima had immediately covered up the truth with a flimsy apology and an excuse that his thousand-page medical book had fallen off of his bed. It made Takao smile for some reason, and he had to clap his hand over his mouth to stifle a chuckle.

Midorima waited until she disappeared down the hall before opening his closet door. He bodily hauled Takao out into his room and immediately began dusting fat snowflakes off of Takao's two-sizes-too-big hoodie. “What did you do that for? You could have gotten hurt.”

“It's more slippery out there than I thought it was,” Takao answered, gesturing at the roof with a jerk of his head. He met Midorima's gaze and smiled in a way that always made Midorima's mouth go hard. “You missed the perfect opportunity to make a joke about me falling from heaven.”

“That's an elective right, not a favorable circumstance, and I'm _electing_ to preserve my dignity.” Midorima ghosted his fingers over the top of Takao's damp hair and shook his head disapprovingly. “If a day ever comes where I stoop to your level you're free to put me out of my misery.” Midorima crossed his room and pulled a towel out of his laundry basket. Takao huffed a breath of laughter as he kicked off his shoes.

“I know that I confessed my undying love for you, but I don't know that I'm ready to reuse your sweaty gym towels,” Takao said, eyeing Midorima suspiciously. “You also missed the opportunity to make a joke about me coming out of the closet.”

“It's clean,” Midorima drawled and tossed the towel to Takao. “And once again, _dignity_.”

Takao scrunched up his face in an expression of incredulity as he towel-dried his hair. “Who has a laundry basket for _clean_ clothes?” Takao paused and considered the question briefly. “Why do I still ask these kinds of questions when it comes to you?” Then he spotted a plastic bag next to the door and nodded at it. “What's in the bag?”

Midorima gave the bag a superfluous glance. “Items for donation.”

“Oh,” Takao said distinctly, his lips still framed on the word after it had already left his mouth. He aimed the snow-damp towel at a basket adjacent to the one Midorima had retrieved it from and made the shot without fail. “Oh yeah! Just call me Hachimura!”

“No,” Midorima said immediately, reaching for his nightcap. “You have a ways to go.”

“I don't know why you always have to be a shit in my cut, Shin-chan.” Takao jumped up onto Midorima's bed and stretched himself out on the end opposite the green-haired boy. It always took Midorima a moment to get settled, and when he finally shimmied into bed, his feet passed Takao's head so the shorter boy was eye-level with his ankles. Takao noticed the pattern of penguins on Midorima's socks and smiled.

“Akashingō,” Midorima sighed and readjusted his nightcap. “You know, if you keep using vulgar language so freely, you're going to have to start acting like an adult. Which means, no more sleepovers.”

Takao frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “For someone who'd steal the sun from the sky for you, you're not very nice to me. Are you saying that I have to go back out into the cold and risk my life trying to get home because you don't want me here?”

“I made a statement. I never gave reasons for refusal but don't push it. Winter break will be over before we know it and I'll be busier than ever.” Midorima reached under his pillow and retrieved the manga Takao had left at his house the last time he visited. “You should also stop filling up your brain with this nonsense. These provide no benefit, and in fact, have shown to be nothing more than a way to overwhelm the mind with a wasteful torrent of learning.”

Takao reached forward and tugged the manga out of Midorima's hand. “I'll have you know that I _like_ to fill my brain up with useless information. Why do I need to learn the important stuff when I spend all of my time with a walking font of knowledge? At least my material is interesting. What are you reading over there? Another book on brain anatomy?” Takao craned his neck and tried to glimpse the dust jacket on Midorima's excessively large tome.

Midorima pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Takao. This is a poetry book.”

“Bullshit,” Takao said, laughing. “I can see something about alchemy from here. You're such a nerd, Shin-chan.” Takao smiled and opened his book, his fingers pressing firmly against the black and white drawings of young students.

Midorima rolled over onto his side and cracked the scholarly publication open with a huff of breath. And this was Takao's favorite time of night because he could steal glimpses of Midorima without the other boy knowing. It was an innocent exercise in self-indulgence and Takao had no ulterior motives, but he felt like he was making Midorima an accomplice in some kind of dirty secret just by looking at him. So he only glanced at Midorima when he felt like he was guaranteed not to get caught and never in excess.

Takao looked up beneath his dark lashes to watch Midorima's longer ones flitter when he blinked, casting dark shadows just above his cheekbones. He had a habit of chewing on the bottom line of his mouth when he read, and he'd always lick his lips just before he turned the page. They were little insignificant tendencies, probably not worth mentioning to anyone else; but Takao knew that he was the only one who had the pleasure of witnessing them, and it was enough to make his heart swell with fondness and admiration for the other boy.

Takao yawned and set down his book to stretch his arms toward the ceiling. “All right, Shin-chan, I'm getting sleepy. What time do I need to hit the road?”

Midorima yawned in succession and looked at Takao with heavy-lidded eyes. “Be gone before sunrise.”

Takao gave him a sleepy salute and covered himself up with the blanket Midorima kept at the end of his bed just for him. He yawned a second time and tried to blink away the ensuing moisture that blurred his vision.

“Why do you risk so much just to come over here?” Midorima asked suddenly. He closed his book and laid his hand on the heavy cover. “I know you come here to spend time with me, but is it worth it? It's not good for your health. You don't get nearly enough sleep at night. You risk running into dangerous people. Not to mention the risks of scaling my house and getting caught by my parents. Am I really worth all of this trouble?”

Takao shrugged his shoulders and slid further down the bed. “S'no trouble at all,” he mumbled as he battled a third yawn. “And yeah, you are. To me anyway. I can't speak for anyone else.” Takao tried to think up a witty remark but nothing came to him so he simply shrugged again. “Sleep is overrated anyway.”

Midorima looked as though he wanted to rebuke and chasten Takao's comment but he pressed his lips together instead. He nodded and lowered his head down to the fluffy bulk of his pillow. After a moment of comfortable silence, Midorima gently cleared his throat and muttered a quiet: “Goodnight, Takao.”

“Sleep tight, Shin-chan,” Takao replied, a soft smile taking over the shape of his lips.

Only several quiet minutes later, Takao could tell that Midorima had already fallen asleep. _And you scold me for not getting enough sleep._ Takao stared at him unabashedly, not bothering to disguise the look of adolescent adoration that cushioned his features. _I'm so stupidly in love with you._

Takao waited until Midorima began to utter the same nondescript noises under his breath that he always made when he was in a deep sleep. When he was sure that he wouldn't wake him, Takao carefully slid off the end of Midorima's mattress and moved over to his side of the bed. He carefully removed his glasses and set them down on an end table. He covered up his shoulders and traded his book for a stuffed bear—Midorima claimed that he'd only gotten it as a lucky item, but Takao had found him cuddling with it one night when he came over a little too late and Midorima was already curled up in bed, fast asleep.

He stared down at Midorima, wishing so badly that he could climb into bed behind him and hold him in his arms. He wanted to feel his warmth against his body and the gradual rise and fall of his breathing under his hands. He reminded himself that Midorima's space was his and his alone, and the fact that he allowed Takao to take up even a fraction of that space—well, Takao would comply, and he would learn to be content with what he had.

Takao turned out the only light still burning in the room and cautiously climbed back into the ghost of his previous position. Once settled, he closed his eyes and listened to the soft shift of Midorima's breathing, and after willing his mind to a state of deliberate calm, he let the sound lull him into a slumber.

He would sleep like he always did, until just before the golden light of daybreak washed away the clouds of eventide. Then he would wake and slip out of Midorima's room like his presence was nothing but a sliver of light breaking through the dark.

And like always, he would walk home with a feeling of the sweetest sadness in his bones.


	15. Headful of Ghosts

The new year came and went like Takao's footprints in the snow, and Midorima hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Takao that he was going to be busy. Takao tried to bury himself in his own tasks—he'd be lying if he said he didn't have a lot of things to do—but without Midorima around, well, his absence was a presence in itself. Takao had gotten so used to the sound of his voice, the constant hounding, and his half-real disappointment that he felt like he was missing the better part of himself. Not to mention the innocent _accidental_ touches; those he missed the most. Having Midorima beside him had become essential to his everyday routine and he missed their dynamic. Without Midorima around, even his music didn't play the same anymore.

He wished more than anything that he could do more than fumble on his own, that his feelings for Midorima were nothing more than some medial prefrontal cortex-induced fever dream. He liked to pretend that their personalities weren't compatible, that their mutual dysfunction was something he'd merely conjured up during a moment of weakness. He tried to tell himself that he was still young enough to play make-believe and that his lovesickness was just that, a sickness, a part of his brain that would regenerate in time, and he'd finally be free from the disease that fed on him like a parasite.

But he knew that it was nothing more than a rosy illusion because he'd never been so sure of anything in his life. Still, it didn't allay the intoxication, didn't mitigate his self-made animosities, didn't assuage the ache or the pain, or the way he sometimes woke up feeling like he was decaying. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, an unspooling ball of yarn, and the only cure was to stick a needle in his skin and stitch himself back together until he was no longer unraveling. It should have been easy, at least easier than it was; but it wasn't because his brain was some kind of reeking, rotting cesspool of unwanted thoughts that sloshed around in his brain until it seeped through the cracks in his thoughts and leaked into his bloodstream.

Sometimes, he used to think that it would be easier if he were dead. He wouldn't have to be afraid of the future, of what people might think about him if he ever got the courage to scream his feelings to the world. He wouldn't have to feel the pain of _wanting._ He wouldn't have to come to accept that nearly half of the surrounding community would deem him inherently selfish, antagonistic to mainstream society, and disrespectful for not preserving the natural order of household traditions and family practices.

He thought about jumping out of his window once, pictured brain matter and cerebrospinal fluid leaking out of his ears, his bones smashed up against the pavement below. He thought it might be nice to die there, next to the garden his mother and little sister helped create. But the fall wouldn't guarantee more than a couple of broken bones unless he landed just right and he didn't like pain so he let his brain shift to something else, something more secure. He thought about the scissors in the pineapple-shaped cup on his desk, thought about piercing them through his skull. It seemed fitting enough, mutilating his brain until his thoughts spilled over the bloodied blade and escaped through the hole he made, the one he always seemed to be digging for himself.

He thought it had to be easier than the life he was living. It had to be better than watching the world fall apart, had to be greater than watching everyone else choke on false promises and dark secrets, and all of the words they couldn't speak because societal norms forbade it. It had to be better than all of the fighting, and the killing, and the makeshift wars going on between the same species, the selfsame breed so desperate to climb to higher ground when at the end of the day, their blood would bleed the same shade of red as the people they made a life out of hating.

At the end of the day, it would always be just blood and guts and gore; the same shade of red and bone and brain.

Takao knew that he shouldn't feel so small, knew that he wasn't standing at the bottom of a well no matter how sodden and cold and heavy his thoughts made him feel. But the water pulled so strong, and when the moon looked down on him, Takao swore he could feel judgment in its eyeless gaze. When he'd been seized by these occasional moments of a debilitating fear of the future, of himself, he'd dial Midorima's cell phone number. He'd close his eyes and pretend to dream. He'd let Midorima's voice soothe him through outlandish hours of the night, and sometimes he'd cry, but he always came through it at the end being able to tell the forest from the trees.

It was a lot for a kid to take on, and sometimes his thoughts scared him so badly that he would bite his nails down to the quick and watch the blood collect beneath what was left of keratin and flaky skin until his eyes burned from not blinking. Sometimes, when he blinked, the world would right itself, and Takao would move forward like his darkest thoughts weren't turning to sludge inside of his brain. Other times, he would curl in on himself and cry until his voice was nothing but hot breath and he'd be left to spend hours hiccuping through tears and mucus.

He chalked it up to be teenage melodrama, and despite everything else he told himself, it worked the best because it was the clearest promise of _this isn't going to last forever._

It hit him one night out of the blue, the coldest and hardest truth he had ever come up against. It struck him square in the face like a stone and he'd actually checked his face for blood before he attempted to process the weight of it. It wasn't himself that he was ashamed of, not really—sure, he wished for better skin and longer legs and maybe a little more muscle, but he was proud of who he had become. Furthermore, he still had time to change the little things that he wasn't wholly satisfied with.

Most importantly, he wasn't embarrassed to be head-over-heels in love with his best friend as he was of fire and sirens and what the future held for his little sister.

He realized that everything came down to the learned behavior he'd developed as a result of shitty experiences with people like Haizaki. It was due to the declarations of hate and aversion he'd stumbled upon on the internet, seen in the media, and through arbitrary laws and unfair biases—and who was to credit for all of this? Takao realized that he was giving power to all of the things not conducive to his mental health. It made him angry, made him hate himself for a whole new set of reasons because he allowed himself to be damaged by what he loathed the most. The insecure, slimy roaches, who took the laws of morality into their own hands, who deemed that those they felt didn't fit into the standards of society, who didn't fit into an intransigent box, had no right to live. Takao didn't want to be humiliated, didn't want to feel like he had to bow and apologize on the behalf of somebody's bigotry for simply existing. He refused to believe that he was wrong and they were right, refused to accept that offending them at the hand of their self-doubt and hatred was _his_ problem and not their own. It wasn't, and he refused to let it be so.

He was going to be sixteen soon. He had enough of his own problems to be getting on with, he didn't need to take on others' narrowness and sectarianism, the cruelty of discrimination, or foregone conclusions—he was plenty capable of indoctrinating himself, thank you very much.

Which is exactly what he did when he rode his bike for the first time in months and found himself hiding behind a dogwood tree outside of Midorima's house.

He could hear the intonation of Midorima's voice but he couldn't make out any of his words as he spoke aimlessly to a certain redhead Takao couldn't bring himself to name. He knew well enough from all of the horror movies he watched that giving a monster a name only gave it power. _Or was that if you wanted to summon it? Did knowing its name_ give _you the power?_ Takao shook his head and redirected his focus, hating how easily he got derailed at the most inopportune of times.

He watched Midorima wave his hand in a gesture of parting as the redhead walked down the sidewalk and climbed into a sleek black vehicle. Takao flattened himself against the tree, grateful for its wide circumference, and waited until he heard the car's engine fade into the distance. He exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and cautiously stepped back out onto the pavement and into the sun's warm light.

Midorima had already gone back into his house, but for once, Takao appreciated his absence. The black vehicle was long out of sight but Takao felt the abyss that it left in its wake. He felt like he was going to be swallowed whole if he didn't move away from the tire tracks turning to dust and the lingering odor of an overheated engine. He had gotten used to slipping in and out of the void but he'd never had to blackball himself before. It was a strange feeling, one that he didn't want to get used to, but he couldn't face Midorima after the disparity of their reputations became excruciatingly obvious. He and Midorima were miles apart, _night and day_ ; it was never within his province to interfere with Midorima's life. He wasn't like one of _them_. That was made obvious the day that he realized he'd never be welcomed in through the front door of his home like a 'normal' person.

Takao jumped onto his bike and peddled home as if his life depended on it. By the time he reached his destination, his brain was so replete with mental objects that he'd sent his observational skills packing. He had already dropped his bike on one of its handlebars and was lumbering up one of the main paths into the building when a cloud of cigarette smoke engulfed him. He waved his hand through the air in a deprecatory gesture that looked as if he were trying to fend off a horde of gnats and coughed.

“What the fuck?” he spat. He honed the intense feeling of contempt that he felt and forced it into the glare he aimed at the younger Haizaki brother. “Do you ever do anything worthwhile? Or did you finally decide to throw in the towel since you only know how to fuck everything up for yourself?”

Haizaki wet his lips before emitting an expression of amusement. “Wow. I didn't think you had it in you. I just assumed that you'd live the rest of your life letting people make a doormat out of you.”

“Yeah, well assumptions make an ass out of you and me, asshole. I'm not your doormat, never was. Now get out of my face.” Takao moved forward with all the determination he could muster but he didn't have the support of Haizaki's gross advantage of getting into fights on his side. He managed a decent enough knock against Haizaki's shoulder but it did nothing to detract Haizaki's bad personality. If anything, it spurred him on.

“Slow down, pretty boy. I'm just trying to have a nice conversation with you. I don't see the harm in that. We've grown up together, haven't we? What's a little chat between two neighbors?”

Takao balked at the suggestion and threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Seriously? You've been a dick to me my entire life, you _and_ your shitty brother, and I'm not going to stand here and pretend that you want to act otherwise. I'm having a bad day and I don't need _you_ adding to it.”

Haizaki chuckled darkly and despite Takao's current and sudden strength, the sound settled in the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone.

“What's so bad about today? The sun is shining, the birds are singing,” –Haizaki took another drag off of his cigarette– “the faggots are thriving. What more could you want?”

Takao narrowed his gaze at Haizaki until the imprint of red he tried to leave at Midorima's flashed behind his eyes and his sight turned red. He imagined a pair of scissors snipping a string and every emotion that he'd managed to keep bottled up bled through him at once.

“Wipe that shit-eating grin off of your face, dickhead. And while you're at it, tell your brother to stop pissing in your Frosted Flakes for the both of us, 'kay? I'm sick of having to deal with your bullshit just because you have a laundry list of issues you need to take care of. Stop taking your problems out on me and go get a blowjob from your deadbeat dad.” Takao pushed forward and snarled a violent “ _Loser_.”

“I always wondered where you got such a dirty mouth,” Haizaki retorted, his hand closing around the back of Takao's neck.

Takao flinched at the icy touch and tried to wrest himself free from Haizaki's painful grip. “You should consider quitting those things, you have shit for circulation. It's not like you need the disease, you're fucking cancerous enough on your own.” Takao knew it was a weak insult but he could no longer avoid the way his nerves were tripping over his heart. His palms were growing sweaty and he wanted nothing more than to be up in the safety and warmth of his room.

“You mean these?” Haizaki asked and held out the foul-smelling stick pressed between his fingers just enough that Takao could see it in his periphery. “You're probably right.” He sounded genuine enough that Takao was momentarily taken aback, but no sooner than the birds in the trees took flight, Haizaki stubbed the glowing end of his cigarette out on the back of Takao's neck.

Takao inhaled a sharp breath between his teeth and pitched himself away from the other boy. He slapped a hand over the red welt already forming on his skin, wincing as his fingers met with pain. “I fucking hate you,” Takao growled.

“Oh dear” –Haizaki pressed his hand to the space above his heart– “please don't hate me, sweetheart. I can't go on knowing that you don't feel the same way about me as I do you,” Haizaki ridiculed in a sickeningly sweet falsetto voice.

“You know why I think you bully me?” Takao asked, willing himself not to cry.

“Enlighten me,” Haizaki deadpanned, not even bothering to meet Takao's eye. He looked down at what looked to be claret crusted beneath his fingernails.

Takao tracked the motion and swallowed around the hard lump forming in his throat when he connected the dots. He didn't want to know where it had come from any more than he wanted his own blood to join the dark stain. But like every other critical moment in his past, he couldn't keep his traitorous mouth from running off.

“I think you're just like me. You get off on terrorizing me because you're plagued by the idea that you could be the thing that you hate. That's usually how these things go, you know. You take your anger and your repressed issues out on the people you can't accept because you're fucking insecure.” Takao could feel the breeze ghost over his eyes and his nose started to burn; he knew that he was going to cry, but he couldn't grind the stopper into the bottle of his emotions. It was too late, like a dam aged by weather and the sharp knife of time, he was going to pieces. “Wouldn't that be the worst fucking thing in the world? Haizaki Shōgo gets his rocks off to boys.” Takao sniffed but it wasn't enough to stem the flow of tears draining through the ducts that emptied into his nostrils. He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve and inhaled a deep, staggering breath.

“Shut the fuck up,” Haizaki growled, his face turning a deep shade of red, not for embarrassment but anger. He stepped forward and closed his fist around the front of Takao's shirt. “You don't know a fucking thing about me, faggot. I've had more pussy than you'll ever have.”

Takao laughed in a broken, shrill manner and looked up at Haizaki. “That kind of comes with the territory.” He sniffed again. “You shouldn't rely on other people to do your homework, Shōgo, but I'll help you out this time.” He leaned forward and tried not to wince when Haizaki jerked away from him like he was the embodiment of some incurable disease. “Faggots don't chase pussy.” Takao hated the way the words felt on his tongue, barbed and poisonous, but he would choke on them for the rest of his life if it meant never forgetting the look that passed over Haizaki's face. Then, because Takao figured if he was going to push his boundaries, he might as well take it to the limit, he added: “And for the record, blood doesn't change a damn thing. A blowjob still counts as a blowjob.”

Takao managed to close his eyes just before Haizaki's fist made contact with his face. He could hear the crunch of bone and the reciprocity of correlation, his cartilage against Haizaki's stiff joints. He could feel the strange flow of tepid fluid collect on the bow of his upper lip before it lost to gravity and spilled down his chin. And it hurt, it hurt a whole hell of a lot, but Takao couldn't help but feel victory in the pain.

“You should go clean that up. Your face looks like shit,” Haizaki said, gnashing his teeth before shoving Takao in the direction of the building. Takao staggered but he didn't drop until he heard a familiar voice speak his name in the frame of a question. His hands broke the fall but he felt like a ship being pitched at sea. He trembled in every shaking limb, feeling a new wash of dizziness as blood surged up to his head.

“Shin-chan?” Takao slowly lifted his head. He squinted against the sun and noted the two shadows that stretched across the grass at an absurd angle.

“Well, would you look at that? It's Mr. Divination himself. Did you run over here after taking a look into your crystal ball?” Haizaki laughed as though he thought himself the world's greatest comedian but the sound was cut short like a microphone pushed to mute.

Takao could feel his jaw drop and his eyes grow wide, and while he wanted to press his lips together because the metallic bitterness of blood wasn't at the top of his favorite favors, he couldn't move. He was frozen, stuck in place as if time itself had come to a screeching halt.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, and I do mean _anyone_ , I will see to it that you're charged with multiple counts of aggravated assault and convicted on drug charges. Do not push me, _Shōgo_. I have enough dirt on you to bury you in dust motes.”

Midorima said nothing more, turned his back on Haizaki, and walked over to where Takao was sitting on the ground. He reached out and offered Takao his hand, blood spattering the tape on his fingers. Takao put his hand in Midorima's larger one and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, his face still exhibiting an expression of shock and awe. He allowed himself to be bodily pulled toward the entrance, and when he handed the building's entrance key to Midorima, he was moving with all the conscious alertness of a zombie. His awareness was still shattered, compromised by a combination of admiration and disbelief. His mental state felt gorged upon, chewed up and spat out, and he wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't going to be praying to the porcelain god when they reached his apartment.

They walked in silence and Takao made it through the door of his apartment without vomiting, much to his relief. He toed off his shoes and made to tug his hoodie over his head when he realized that Midorima was still holding his hand.

“Shin-chan?” Takao asked cautiously, his voice slightly more nasally than usual. “Are you okay?”

“I punched him,” Midorima said distantly. “I actually... I _punched_ him.”

Takao bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. What had started as one of the worst days in recent months was slowly unraveling into one of the best. “Yeah, you did, and it was fucking awesome.”

“I've never punched anyone. I've never even hit... I _punched_ him...”

Takao clapped Midorima on the back and laughed, the sound muffled and garbled by the blood clotting his nose and cloying in the back of his throat. “I promise you that no one would blame you. I'd say that on a list of people who deserve to be punched, you aimed for the top.”

Midorima glanced down at Takao and tried to harden his features. “Don't be so crass, Takao.”

Takao bowed his head and smiled because he could read Midorima's expressions better than his own, and his countenance shone with gratification and comfort. Takao gave up trying to remove his hoodie and instead, led Midorima down his hall, grateful to be home alone. He didn't want to imagine the look on his mother's face if she saw his current state. The last thing that he wanted in all of this was for his parents to worry about him.

He pulled Midorima into the bathroom behind him, turned on the light, and shut the door. He noticed the way Midorima's brows drew together and squeezed his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Just in case,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I never know what my family gets up to these days.”

Midorima's confusion shifted into an expression of worry and Takao laughed. “I'm kidding, Shin-chan. My little sister had a doctor's appointment. It's fine.”

“Speaking of doctors,” –Midorima turned to face Takao directly and frowned– “I'd like to get a better look at your nose.”

Takao sighed and rolled his eyes but he was already nodding. “Where do you want me?” he asked with an air of fatigue and boredom.

Midorima hummed and Takao could almost see his thoughts shifting behind the woven shadows of his gaze. “Does it hurt?”

Takao stared at him incredulously. “Are you serious? Of course it fucking hurts. I feel like I took a brick to the face.”

Midorima looked unfazed. “What kind of pain is it?”

Takao exhaled an impatient sigh. “I don't know, Shin-chan, concrete and fly ash? All I know is that it hurts.”

Midorima pinched the bridge of his nose and took a moment to compose himself as if he were dealing with a child. “The bleeding appears to have stopped, at least for the most part. Elevate your head to reduce the pain. I trust that you have ice packs in your freezer?” Midorima asked, eyeing him in a way that said _so help you if you don't, Takao_.

“I think so, yeah,” Takao answered, turning to gape at himself in the mirror. “How can a fist cause all of this damage?” He tipped his head back and grimaced when a sharp pain lanced through his head. His face resembled a canvas for the kind of exemplified violence that many people saw in Hermann Nitsch's art. “I'm going to have a killer headache later, aren't I?”

“Very likely,” Midorima said shortly. “I'm going to go get you some ice to reduce the inflammation. We won't know whether it's a nasal fracture or not until the swelling goes down. Wash your face and take a dose of acetaminophen to get ahead of the pain.” Takao shot him a pointed look as he opened the bathroom door. “For the _headache_ ,” he supplemented, then disappeared out into the hall.

Takao turned on the faucet and carefully tugged his hoodie over his head. He hadn't noticed when Midorima let go of his hand but his palm still felt warm. He washed his face over the sink, wincing when the water turned too hot and he burned the tips of his fingers. Once he looked less like a character in an action film, he retrieved two Tylenol from the medicine cabinet and ambled into his bedroom to stuff his hoodie down to the bottom of his laundry hamper. He grabbed the bottle of water on his bedside table and downed the pills in one go, cringing at the lingering taste of blood in his throat and the ache that thrummed through his nose.

Midorima entered his room a moment later and handed Takao an ice pack wrapped in an old dishrag. “You'll need to do this for fifteen to twenty minutes, three to four times a day. I'll keep an eye on your progress and if things worsen in the next forty-eight hours, you'll need to see a doctor.”

Takao took the ice pack and placed it over his nose gently. “You're going to make a great doctor, Shin-chan. Know anyone who wants to be a makeup artist?”

Midorima furrowed his brow and a breath of laughter huffed over Takao's parted lips. “My parents aren't going to be too happy when they see me. I can be clumsy sometimes but I don't know how far walking into the wall is going to get me this time.”

“Sports are a common cause of fractures and facial injuries. You can tell them that it happened at the park during a basketball game.” Midorima sat down on the edge of Takao's bed and began removing the pieces of bloodied tape from his fingers.

Takao gaped at him, and Midorima arched an eyebrow when he noticed Takao staring. “What?”

“I just didn't expect Mr. I-have-an-answer-for-everything to, well, have an answer for everything.” Takao wet his lips and creased his brow. “In hindsight, I see how that should have been obvious.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Midorima's mouth. “Can you grab some tape for me? I'm going to go wash my hands.”

“Only if I have permission to write _in loving memory, may his soul forever wash his hands_ on your gravestone.” Midorima shot him a look and Takao made a face at him while gesturing at the door for him to go.

Midorima left the room and Takao retrieved a fresh roll of medical tape out of the topmost drawer of his desk. When he turned back around, Midorima was already framed in his doorway, an indiscernible look on his face. Takao emitted a high-pitched squeak, much to his embarrassment, and hugged the ice pack closer to his face.

“Give a guy some warning, Shin-chan. Are you taking tips from the phantom sixth man now?” Takao twirled the roll of tape around his finger but something about the look on Midorima's face made him freeze. “What? Why are you staring at me like you just walked in on something far more interesting?”

“Is that my shirt?” Midorima asked, eyes glued to the T-shirt hanging loosely on Takao's smaller frame.

“No?” Takao said, not meaning to nix the possibility of Midorima believing him from the start. “Okay, yeah...fine, it is, but hear me out.” Takao could feel heat creep into his cheeks and he was suddenly very grateful for the ice pack's vague obstruction. “Remember when I came over to your house and I asked you about that bag of clothes you had for donation?” Takao began to pace. “Well, this shirt was poking out of the top and I thought it was stupid just to throw it away...well, I guess you weren't throwing it away...but I've been wearing resale clothing for years and this one had the added benefit of smelling better than an old shoe-box or a plastic bin so I kind of helped myself...please don't be mad.”

Midorima laughed then, and Takao stilled at the sound so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet.

“I'm not mad, Takao.” Midorima fully entered the room, a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks. “I think it looks nice on you.”

“I know it's like two sizes too big because you grew like a monster but, wait, _what_?” Takao's voice ended on a high note and he wished, _so desperately_ , that it would stop doing that.

Midorima lifted his shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug and sat back down on Takao's bed. “It looks nice on you.” He held out his hand for the roll of tape. “You could have asked me, though. I would have given it to you.”

Takao placed the tape down on Midorima's waiting palm with more caution than necessary. “Okay...am I dreaming here? Am I concussed? First, you _punch_ Haizaki, then you laugh, like a _real_ _genuine_ laugh, and now you're handing out compliments. This can't be real.”

Midorima had already begun the methodical act of re-taping his fingers. “You do not have a concussion and I gave you _one_ compliment, Takao.”

“Shin-chan, we've been friends for years and I can count all the compliments you've given me on one hand. Let's not act like this is just another Monday, okay? Let me have my moment.”

“I'll let you have your moment if you tell me why you fled from my house earlier,” Midorima said casually despite the weight his words carried.

“You saw me?” Takao sat down on his bed and lowered the ice pack to his lap. “I left after you went back inside. I didn't think...”

“It's only been ten minutes,” Midorima said, gesturing at the nondescript shape in Takao's lap. “Yes, I saw you. I also know that you saw Akashi and if I'm not mistaken, I believe that's why you got yourself into trouble with Haizaki.”

A rough sound spewed past Takao's lips before he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in admonishment. “Haizaki is an asshole and I did not _get_ myself into trouble. As for Akashi,” –Takao forced his shoulders into what he hoped to be a believable shrug– “he has a right to visit you when he wants... I guess,” he added bitterly.

“Takao...”

“What?” Takao snapped, spitting the 't' like a serpent projecting venom from its fangs. He lowered his eyes and began to pick apart the hole in his jeans that exposed more than half of his left knee.

Midorima exhaled a long sigh as he finished wrapping his fifth digit. “Are you...jealous of my relationship with Akashi?”

Takao emitted an unflattering snort of displeasure. “Trust me, I have no interest in Akashi.”

“That isn't what I meant,” Midorima scolded.

“You're allowed to have friends, Shin-chan. I'm not some crazy lovesick psychopath who needs you in my life 24/7. I just think that he's a pretty shitty person if he thinks he can go around carving shitty inscriptions into people's stomachs all willy-nilly.”

“You didn't even wait to find out why he was at my house before you left. There has to be a reason for that.”

Takao stared at Midorima, and Midorima stared back at him just as unrelenting. Takao told himself to stay calm, to not let his emotions get the better of him, but his mouth was a trigger-switch and his mind was a bomb ready to detonate.

“Yeah, there is. Two reasons actually, and you share their last name.”

“You left because of my parents? Since when have you cared about...”

Takao practically sprung himself off of his bed and started to shift about his room like an autumn leaf haphazardly blowing in the wind. “I've always cared, Shin-chan. I've always _had_ to care because I'm not worthy enough to hang out with you. I've never just been able to walk through your front door like _Hi, hello, I'm here to see my best friend_ because your parents don't even _know_ that I'm your best friend. They don't think people like me, like my family, are good enough. I don't come from a long line of wealthy entrepreneurs or doctors or lawyers, I'm not even that _smart_. I have average grades, I'm not a prodigy when it comes to sports, I am the fucking embodiment of an average teenager, right?” Takao's voice was furious and he had started speaking faster than his mouth could manage, skipping over letters like his words were cursed and he was trying to outrun the devil. “But I was cool with that. I mean, sneaking into your room kind of became our thing, like maybe it was something special, and I really didn't mind because it meant spending time with you. But then I go over to your house and I see Akashi leaving through your front door and your dad's fucking Landcruiser in the driveway, so I know at least one of your parents is home, and I think to myself, shit. This is reality. I'm not good enough to come into your house like a person. I'm not _charming_ enough to win your parents over. I'm never going to be like the fucking Generation of Miracles. And then I think, how can you possibly be okay with that? Are you going to wake up one day and realize that I'm no good? That you could do better? Will you not like me anymore? Because that's really gonna fucking sting and I don't know if I can deal with that. I mean, I might be gay and that might be really bad to some people, and we live in fucking _Japan,_ not Sweden with their basic rights and protections _._ We don't have criminalization of violence or protections against discrimination for this kind of thing here, and a lot of people haven't come over to my way of thinking—yes, I've privately researched this, Shin-chan. But I'm not a _bad_ person. I have feelings and I need you to understand how much I think about this shit every day because I'm pretty sure it's eating me alive. Can you please get me a glass of water?”

Midorima opened his mouth, closed it, then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Sure. I'll go get that.”

Takao watched Midorima leave the room and when he was out of sight, he flopped down on his bed and ran a hand through his hair. _Great. I just had the worst meltdown of my life in front of my best friend and to top it off, I chose this as the right time to admit that I'm gay out loud. Next thing, I'll become maudlin and start crying like a child in front of a rom-com with a bucket of vanilla ice cream._

Midorima entered the room with a glass of water and Takao sat up so quickly the room tipped upside down. He rubbed at his head and inhaled a slow breath to ease the nauseous feeling roiling in his gut. Midorima eyed him with a look of concern as he pressed the glass into Takao's hand with an air of trepidation. Then he cautiously moved across the room, and Takao nearly choked on a sip of water when Midorima almost missed the chair he was aiming for.

Takao smacked his damp lips together and set the glass down on his bedside table. He debated it for a moment, staring into the clear liquid that was dancing with reflective light. “Don't worry. I'm not going to go off again if that's what you're thinking.” He picked up the glass again, deciding that it felt better to hold onto something. “I've just been bottling a lot of stuff up, I guess.”

“To guess is to have a sneaking suspicion. I'd say that what you just expressed could be read as artless certainty.” Midorima's voice was low and quiet, almost as if he believed that Takao's senses had been deranged. Takao shot him a sideways glance, but Midorima was staring down at the floor.

“Look, I didn't mean to upset you. It's not like I wanted to get into a knock-down-drag-out fight with you over this. I know I kind of went straight for the jugular but I'm not angry with you. I just...it's been a lot.”

“I know it has.” Midorima raised his head but he was still having trouble meeting Takao's gaze. “Sometimes I think you forget that I've grown up with you, too. I've watched you age beside me, and I might not be great at interpreting other people's feelings, but I like to think that I know you fairly well. I've been watching you change over the past several months, more than I think you have in the last” –Midorima gesticulated randomly– “eight years or so.”

Takao hung his head and felt a wave of guilt crest through him. He'd been so busy hanging up his own thoughts that he hadn't even considered Midorima's side of things. He didn't have the slightest clue as to what went through Midorima's head, and hearing it aloud made him realize that he'd been unreasonable.

“I'm sorry, Shin-chan. I wasn't being fair to you. I know you're not your parents, and I shouldn't even be talking shit about them _because_ they're your parents. It can just be hard. Sometimes I feel like there's this huge chasm between us and I want to fill the void so badly that I can...” Takao laughed nervously and tried to avoid the tightness he felt in his chest. “This is not what I had planned for today.” He wiped his palms on the thighs of his jeans and began to bounce his leg. “Sometimes I get so desperate to hear your voice and then my phone rings, and I have this like...Pavlovian response every time I hear it. You just have this ability to calm me down, usually, which is pretty ironic because I'm never calm and you're like the worst kind of sedative.” Takao ran his hand over the back of his neck, winced, and sucked a breath in between his teeth as his fingers brushed over a circle of rough, raised skin.

“What's wrong?” Midorima asked suddenly, jumping to his feet and rushing over to Takao's side. “Why does your neck hurt?”

“It's nothing,” Takao said in an attempt to console the other boy, but Midorima was already pushing him forward to get a better look.

“Did he _burn_ you?” Midorima gently touched the skin around the fresh wound and Takao shivered.

“Yeah, and it hurt pretty bad until you know...he aimed his fucking fist at my face. Funny how that works, isn't it? I forgot all about it until just now.”

Takao noticed Midorima's hands curl into fists and he smiled. “Calm down, Sakuraba. I appreciate the sentiment but I think you've done enough damage for one day. The last thing I want is for that asshole to fuck up your pretty face, too.”

Midorima pretended not to hear the compliment but Takao could see the visible heat straining across his cheeks like firelight.

“I need to put some ointment on this,” Midorima said. He glanced around the room, then finally met Takao's gaze. “Where are your medical supplies?”

“Under the bed,” Takao replied blandly. “I'll get...”

But Midorima had already fallen into a crouch. Takao drew his feet up off the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees until Midorima freed the medical kit from the dust bunnies and invisible mites living in the shadows beneath his bed frame. Midorima brushed off the case cover and popped the kit open, fingers digging around for a tube of antibiotic cream.

When Midorima raised his head, Takao noticed how dark the skin was around his eyes. He absentmindedly lowered his feet to the floor and reached out to trace his fingers over Midorima's prominent cheekbones. “You haven't been sleeping well,” he said, scarcely audible.

“You haven't been coming over as frequently,” Midorima said unthinkingly, taped fingers closing on the desired tube of ointment.

“Wouldn't that mean the opposite? If I'm not there to...” Takao stared down at Midorima, his heart beginning to race in his chest. “Don't tell me that you sleep better when I'm around,” Takao teased while hoping that this small scrap of optimism wasn't laid before him by mistake.

Midorima's hands were shaking despite the white-knuckled grip he had on the tube pressed against his palm. He parted his lips and inhaled a breath like he was gasping for air. His eyes were rapidly turning glassy and Takao didn't know how to handle being on the opposite end of things. Sure, he'd put Midorima through this countless times, but it wasn't every day, or even _year_ , that Takao found Midorima's emotions on full display.

Takao swallowed thickly and felt every nerve in his body turn shivery, every inch of his skin felt alive, crawling with electricity. Then, despite wanting to flee the room, he did the first thing that came to mind. He ran his thumb over Midorima's bottom lip and smiled warmly. “Did you know that you have two freckles on your mouth? I stare at them sometimes, when you're not paying attention.”

“Kiss me,” Midorima said abruptly, a nervous hitch in his voice.

“Are you sure?” Takao felt his stomach lurch and his hand stilled at Midorima's lips. A warm trickle passed down the length of his spine. Takao wet his lips as his leg continued to bounce, unable to sit still with the lightning branching through his veins.

Midorima swallowed hard enough that Takao could make out the sound. He could feel heat coming off of Midorima in waves, could feel the hair stand up on his arms in the wake of the goosebumps that prickled his skin. For a moment, he thought he'd dreamed up the entire phenomenon but then Midorima was nodding his head in assent and Takao was nearly falling into Midorima's lap to press their lips together.

The kiss was innocent, dry, and tentative at the start because even with the pliability of Midorima's lips against his own, he couldn't make himself believe that it was real. The kiss held softness, yet it was firm, and Takao could taste the mint chapstick Midorima always carried around in his back pocket. He briefly felt guilty for how chapped his lips were, bitten down to rough edges and coarse skin. But then Midorima tilted his head, and Takao moved his thumb to the soft angle of Midorima's jaw, coaxing his mouth open. Takao slid his tongue across Midorima's bottom lip and he felt himself go dizzy. He buried his hands in the front of Midorima's shirt in an effort to ground himself, just before he found the will to pull away and face the situation right in front of him.

“Are you okay?” Takao asked gently, almost afraid that Midorima would realize what had just happened and fall apart like an archaic relic left to wither and rot beneath the sun.

Midorima reached up to adjust his glasses, presumably knocked askew by Takao's nose—and that had been a bit uncomfortable because Takao was still painfully conscious of the injury centering his face. Midorima nodded quickly and looked at Takao with something glimmering behind his eyes that he'd never noticed before. The longer they stared at each other, the heavier Takao felt, but it wasn't a bad feeling. It was the kind of feeling one got after facing their fears, when the darkness that grounded their worst nightmares dissolved into something warm and manageable.

The room sat still and Takao could feel his heart pumping hard against his chest. He wondered if Midorima could hear it, and something about the possibility made Takao blush. Yet, he reached out and pushed Midorima's hair back into its original place like he was high on all the confidence in the world.

Midorima dropped the tube that remained in his hand and placed his palms down on the top of Takao's knees. He made a strange sound in the back of his throat and Takao released his shirt to wrap his fingers around Midorima's arms. He didn't know if he was seeking intimacy or some semblance of control—perhaps he was unconsciously offering the other boy stability—but regardless, it helped calm the shake in his fingers. He exhaled a slow, measured breath, then leaned down to kiss Midorima a second time.

He half-expected Midorima to panic, to underscore all of the things society wanted him to believe whenever he dared look up a certain topic or ventured out into dangerous (Haizaki) infested waters. He thought about the stigma of shame placed upon him, the ugly art of discrimination, and the inequity of people like him; but he forced it out and let his body fill up with a state of euphoria that overflowed into contentment. He could get used to this, he could kiss Midorima for the rest of his life.

And that's when Takao decided that it was time to stop looking into the past and at old prejudices. He decided that it was time to stop chasing the negative and move forward. It was time to trust in his parents' acceptance and love for him, time to join forces with those willing to take stock in the greater good—because he wasn't bad or sick or diseased—he was just like every other teenage boy in love. Which he considered reasonable seeing as he was still looking for his identity. He was still young, awkward, and confused. He was emotional and insecure and temperamental—combative and confrontational and querulous. He was uncomfortable in his own skin most of the time and hormonal _all of the time_ , and he was going to have a heart attack because he'd just slipped Midorima his tongue and not been rejected.

_Well, if I die, at least I'll die happy—maybe_ too _happy._


	16. Silver Linings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to note that the shift into present tense from this chapter onward is intentional. I realize that I could have written this story in a singular tense, but I wanted to recount Takao's story through different tenses to underscore the changes in their relationship. I chose this chapter as the shift because this is roughly the midpoint of the story, and it represents a new start for Midorima and Takao.

The temperatures at the start of April are trending upward and despite Midorima's reproof and admonition, Takao is peddling toward their new school sans his gakuran uniform jacket. The air is crisp and sweet and Takao loves how it feels on his bare arms, loves how he can feel it deep in his bones. He can't stop smiling like a conquistador because he's finally made it. He's going to Shūtoku Kōkō _,_ one of the Three Kings of Tokyo, and this time, he's going with his best friend.

It wasn't until last week that Midorima and Takao decided that they needed to talk about what happened between them. Things weren't as awkward as Takao had expected they'd be, and Midorima never had a mental breakdown over kissing Takao—which he realizes now had made it to the top of his list of things he was most afraid of. Midorima, however, had told him _If you ever shove your tongue into my mouth again without brushing your teeth first, you can kiss kissing me goodbye_. Takao had nudged him in the ribs, declaring a light and airy _Good one_ , while knowing that the boy with Shin-chan green eyes and a tight smile was dead serious. But it was something that came with the territory of loving a germaphobe and a high-strung tsundere with a severe case of OCD. Fortunately for Takao, he didn't mind venturing deep into this neck of the woods.

He remembers the way Midorima had looked when he talked about his feelings. How he chewed on his bottom lip as he confessed to Takao that he still wasn't entirely sure how to process what he was feeling—that he still didn't fully understand his sexual orientation or affectional disposition, but he _did_ know that he didn't hate kissing Takao. It was a silver lining in a sea of gray and Takao had long since gotten used to chasing hopeful prospects and breaks in the clouds. If anything, he was right within his stamping grounds.

Furthermore, Midorima said that he wanted Takao to refrain from putting reserve between himself and his parents. They would be attending the same school, partaking in the same club activities, and most importantly, Takao was a significant element in Midorima's life. Midorima was old enough to choose his companions for himself, and if his parents couldn't accept their friendship, then he would be more than happy to give them a piece of his mind. Almost ten years of bottled-up emotion gave him plenty of material to go off of.

On the other hand and a lighter note, Midorima had finally left Teikō, albeit on a stilted oath and with a lot of bridges left to burn; and Takao eventually stopped spending so many evenings stuck inside his head.

They still have a lot to work through, and sometimes Takao feels like his head is fucked up on alcohol—not that he would _know_ —but he has enough sense to imagine what inebriation feels like. It's similar to when he watches Midorima for too long like he's been staring directly into the sun, and the spots behind his eyes compromise his ability to walk in a straight line. His heart kicks against his rib cage and his palms grow sweaty, and he can't keep his thoughts from snagging on desire, sticking like a barnacle in an erosive setting until it breaks down to the impatience of desperation. He can't get the taste of Midorima's chapstick off of his mind, and the want to kiss him festers into a sore on his mentality.

“This is it, Shin-chan!” Takao chimes, jumping off the seat of his bike. He reaches into the rickshaw and grabs his jacket, slipping his arms into the sleeves easily.

“Takao,” Midorima drawls with a sigh as he climbs out of the attached cart. “We're in high school now. Stop using that childish nickname.”

Takao feigns hurt but he's too happy to make it stick. The expression of put-on disappointment slips from his face and dissolves like cotton candy on too-warm fingers. For some reason, the visual makes Takao's thoughts disintegrate and he envisions a mist of summer kisses—though, it's not surprising, the soft affection of osculation is all he's been thinking about for weeks.

He tugs himself back into the present moment and flashes Midorima a winning smile. “What else am I supposed to call you then? I started calling you Shin-chan before I even knew how to do a backflip.” Takao laughs then, recalling the first time he demonstrated the move in front of Midorima. _Takao! Are you stupid! Do you know how much damage you could sustain if you were to land on your head? Think of your brain, your spine!!_

“Why not try using my name the way everyone else does?” Midorima smooths his hands down the front of his uniform jacket, then flicks a speck of invisible dust off of his shoulder.

“But I'm not like everyone else, baby,” Takao says casually. He wants to clap his hand over his mouth but Midorima's expression makes every grain of complexity leave his body at once.

Midorima's complexion is a dark shade of red from the smooth column of his throat to the tips of his ears. His mouth is agape and his eyes are wide, and Takao thinks that if not for the surrounding commotion, he'd be able to hear the resounding thrum of Midorima's heartbeat.

Takao takes several steps forward, enough to close the space between them but not so close as to arouse suspicion. “Close your mouth, Shin-chan. I can see your tongue and it's making me want to do bad things to you,” he needles. He lets his fingers brush against Midorima's hand and circles around the rickshaw to retrieve his belongings. “Are you coming? You're not going to reach star student status if you're late on your first day.” Takao holds his breath for a brief moment, a wolfish grin spreading across his mouth. Midorima grabs his possessions, including a box of Oolong tea, then like a serpent biding its time in tall grass, Takao strikes. “ _Baby_.”

“TAKAO!” Midorima bellows, making Takao cackle as he runs off in the direction of the school's wide and welcoming entrance.

Takao smiles as he steps inside what has become his part-time home for the next three years. He doesn't know much about Shūtoku yet, not really, but he can already feel that it's going to be better than junior high. He tugs a key chain out of his pocket and runs his fingers over it with a grin, his heart bursting with fondness and great happiness. He might not put his faith in Oha Asa the way Midorima does, but he accepts his lucky items all the same because it imbues him with the kind of contentment one only feels when being considered.

He waits just beyond the entrance for Midorima to join him because he's not _that_ inconsiderate. He glances up at the banners that line the walls and reads: _Crowning Persistence. Never Surrender._ And because his brain works like his body, restive and unremitting, he thinks to himself: _we_ _made it_. _We actually fucking made it_.

Midorima finally enters the building, unsurprised to find Takao waiting for him. His mouth is set in a tight line and the grip he has on his bag is a bit too strained to consider relaxed. Takao claps him on the back as they set off into the school, striking up a pointless conversation about greater shrew-moles for lack of a better thing to talk about.

Takao has learned through the years that his brain is a lot like his vision. He can bifurcate his thoughts from what he's talking about, and while he's talking about how cute shrew-moles are when they forage in their shallow tunnels, he's thinking: people say that home is where the heart is, but he's never felt more at home with his heart than when he's with Midorima. His home is a person, not a place, and for the first time in his life, he feels truly settled.


	17. Glass Spiders

The first year of Shūtoku is as wonderful as it is overwhelming. Takao loves playing basketball next to Midorima, and more completely, he likes the rest of his team beyond his initial expectations. Ōtsubu has a formidable power as captain but he's the kind of strict that works well for the team. Miyaji is a bit scary but Takao likes him nonetheless, though he wouldn't dare tell him to his face in fear of being smacked upside the head. Kimura adds a balance of calm to the team despite his chiseled features, always making him look just this side of irritated. Though, Takao thinks that's largely due to Midorima's vagaries and the aberration of his genius. Lastly, Nakatani-sensei has a habit of cracking off non-jokes that send Takao into fits of titillating laughter.

When Takao was informed that he'd be joining the first string of players alongside Midorima, his heart slipped like he was plunging down the steep drop of a roller-coaster, and he nearly choked on the excitement that fit to bust his throat wide open. He smiled at Midorima, and Midorima nodded and offered him a small smile in return, one meant for Takao only, no one else.

An hour later, Takao threw up on the court floor and Midorima's tape-free fingers were gently smoothing over his back to comfort him. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the last time it would happen.

Two weeks into training, Takao is wiping at his spit-damp lips with the back of his hand and Midorima is crouched down next to him, rubbing his back like he always does when Takao gets sick.

“This practice is gonna kill me,” Takao complains, his breathing slightly labored.

“Ridiculous, Takao. You've already improved immensely since the start of things. You just need to learn how to pace yourself. You're overtaxing your body.”

“Well, go tell that to our senpais.” Takao grips Midorima's arm and allows himself to be drawn up into standing. “I'll go get the cleaning supplies. I don't want a pineapple flying at my head.”

“Midorima! Back to practice!” Miyaji yells from across the gym.

Midorima gives a curt nod but looks back down at Takao inquisitively. Takao gives him a knowing smile and bows his head. “I'm fine. We're through the worst of it now.”

Midorima looks a bit too suspicious, his brows lifted to model a disbelieving expression, but he jogs back onto the court nevertheless. Takao watches him go for a brief moment, then makes his way over to the supply closet to retrieve the aforementioned cleaning supplies.

When practice finally ends, and Takao has washed the sweat and the feeling that always sticks to his skin after he gets sick down the drain, he meets up with Midorima beyond the school gates. He sneaks up behind him until he's within earshot and says: “I'm gonna need a library card.” Midorima turns around to look at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. Takao can read his response _the library here is free to use_ before he speaks it, and he doesn't want to ruin the punchline so he quickly adds: “Because I'm checking you out.”

“Shut up, Takao,” Midorima says, the skin behind his ears turning faintly pink.

Takao chuckles, drops his school and gym bags into the rickshaw, subsequently leaning against its frame. “So what say you to a nice meal? I've been starving since I left my lunch on the gym floor.”

Midorima pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales a dramatic sigh, then pushes up his glasses. “That sounds fine. I have an important chemistry assignment but I should be able to get that done if I keep to a strict schedule.” He eyes Takao. “That means no fooling around.”

“Me? Are you accusing _me_ of fooling around? Of being absent-minded? I never get distracted!” Takao looks up at the sky and immediately points to an amorphous cloud. “Hey, look! That looks just like a squid!”

“Takao...” Midorima warns, but his voice is soft as he climbs into the wooden cart.

“I'm just messing with you. I know, I get sidetracked easier than a terrier zeroing on a squirrel.” He pushes himself away from the rickshaw and stretches. “So, my good sir, am I taking you home to ditch your uniform, or are we going straight to eat?”

“I'm fine going as I am.” Midorima rifles through his bag and pulls out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. He squirts a perfect bead of the clear liquid into his palm and rubs his hands together. “Strict schedule, remember?”

Takao doesn't realize that he's staring at the soft of Midorima's mouth until Midorima clears his throat to rouse him into awareness. Takao blinks and wets his lips, eyes shifting up to meet Midorima's. Takao smiles, and for as much as he wants to be kissing Midorima right now, when the corners of the green-eyed boy's mouth curve upwards, it's enough to make Takao feel like he's the luckiest guy in the world.

“We could always skip going out and go back to my place instead. You can work on your assignment while I whip us up something to eat. I've gotten pretty good at making _katsudon_.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you have other ideas?”

Takao laughs raucously and climbs onto his bike. “I just really hate this uniform.” Takao shrugs his shoulders for show. “On that note, it would seem that maybe I'm not the only one who gets distracted easily.”

Takao begins peddling away from the curb, a wide smile spreading warmth up to the light of his gaze. He knows that Midorima isn't against the idea of going back to his place, and while he truly doesn't enjoy being in so many layers of clothing, he'd be lying if he said his thoughts weren't in the deep dark woods of the pines.

Takao sings loudly all the way home, much to Midorima's chagrin. It's a simple art but it expends more energy than Takao realizes; so by the time he arrives home, hunger is boiling inside of him, overflowing with the desire to skip dinner and go straight for the junk food he has haphazardly placed throughout his room. He knows that Midorima wouldn't approve, however, so he settles on chugging down a bottle of water instead.

Once inside his apartment, Takao makes a beeline for his bedroom sans shoes and the jacket he left at the door. He shouts a friendly _Hello_ to his parents, opposite the cordial and polite greeting Midorima gives them. He carelessly throws down his belongings once he's inside his room and tugs his shirt over his head. He shucks his pants and kicks off his socks, nearly tripping and left to hop on one foot as the cotton sticks to his skin. The sock comes off inside out and Takao tosses it over his shoulder in a fit of impatience.

“Takao!” Midorima scolds, plucking the fabric off of his shoulder and tossing it into Takao's hamper where it belongs. “Stop being so sloppy and clean up this mess.”

Takao exhales an exaggerated squeal and turns around to point at Midorima. “Do not bargance into my roomichure!”

Midorima rolls his eyes while making quick work of the buttons lining his jacket. “I hardly barged into your room. You left the door wide open.”

“That's because I'm an exhibitionist.” Takao waggles his eyebrows and reaches into his closet for a pair of loose-fitted khaki shorts. He tugs them on while shamelessly staring at Midorima as he shrugs out of the material hugging close to his skin. “Is it wrong that I'm getting turned on right now?”

“Yes,” Midorima answers immediately. He folds his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair near Takao's door.

Takao breaks into a toothy grin and ventures deeper into his closet to retrieve a teal hoodie with three-quarter-length sleeves and a plain black tank top. “Remember that time you told me that you liked me in this color?” Takao asks, backing out of the closet and fixing his hair back into place. He slips into the tank top first, then tugs the hoodie over his head, messing up the strands of hair he'd just smoothed into place. “Hey, we should get matching shirts at the next summer festival.”

Midorima looks fairly appalled at the concept and it draws a chuckle up the dark of Takao's throat. “That would be just the worst thing, wouldn't it?” Takao needles, his eyes darting to the empty hallway. He takes a step forward and before Midorima can read his intention, he hooks a finger around one of Midorima's belt loops and tugs him forward. The taller boy nearly stumbles but he catches himself just as quickly as he he'd started to lose his balance.

“You look really nice in white, you know,” Takao compliments, his arms rising to take Midorima's face in between his warm hands.

Takao remembers their first kiss, how he'd been sitting on his bed and Midorima was kneeling on his floor. It seems so long ago now, and he didn't have a chance to realize it then, with the juxtaposition of two incompatibles—but he can see it presently, how he's grown a bit taller, how his hands have gotten bigger, and the muscle in his arms is visible in every shift of motion. He knows that there's still a good eight-inch difference between them but at least he stands taller than Midorima's chin now.

“Takao, the door is open,” Midorima says, a bit too breathlessly to spell calm.

Takao smirks and places a chaste kiss on Midorima's lips. “Exhibitionist,” he whispers, biting back a smile.

“Go start dinner, Takao,” Midorima tells him, soft and sweet.

“Sure thing, baby. Your personal chef is at your service!” Takao winks then slips through his door-frame. “My bedroom is all yours.” Then he takes another step backward and nearly knocks over his little sister. Midorima emits a snort of laughter and his sister begins to chide him for not paying attention. Takao turns his hands to claws and growls, his sister turning into a fit of giggles as he chases her down the hall.

Takao sneaks tips from his mother as he cooks and pays extra mind to each step, not wanting to ruin the first real meal he's ever made for Midorima. When it's nearly finished, his parents decide to appease his little sister's begging requests and go to Kiwi Kitchen for dinner. Takao bids them farewell with a whispered thanks to his mother and a promise of _I'll be careful_.

Midorima finishes his homework just in time to help set the table, and Takao turns on a cheesy action film for background noise. They eat with all the enthusiasm of two hungry teenage boys and share in idle chatter as the main character on the television makes his way, impossibly, from Tokyo to Kyoto in less than an hour.

Midorima helps Takao clean up when they're finished. Midorima washes the dishes while Takao dries, occasionally bumping his hip against Midorima's while softly humming an age-old anime theme. It feels strangely domestic and Takao thinks about how easy it would be to settle into an everyday routine with Midorima by his side.

“Would you like some tea?” Midorima asks, already pulling two mugs down from the bottom shelf of a wall cabinet.

“You should have asked me that when you were toting around your box of Oolong tea like it was some kind of gift from a secret admirer.” Takao slaps the damp dish towel over his shoulder and turns to look directly at an unimpressed Midorima. “Yes, Shin-chan. I will have some of your delicious tea.”

Takao disappears to the closet down the hall briefly, tossing the soiled rag into a basket with other dirty towels. When he returns, Midorima is boiling a pot of water on the stove.

“What's your lucky item today? I haven't caught sight of anything attached to your hip. Is it small?” Takao presses himself close enough to Midorima to stick his hands into his back pockets. “Jeez, Shin-chan. Do you vacuum out the linings of your pockets? There's not even a hint of lint in them.”

“I get my uniforms dry-cleaned,” Midorima admits. “To answer your question, my item is on my person. As in, I'm wearing it.”

“It's me?” Takao gushes, tilting his head back just enough to meet Midorima's gaze. He slips his hands free from Midorima's pockets and wraps his arms around his waist in a tight hug.

“No, it's not you.” Midorima gently pries himself free of Takao's hold and tends to the bubbling water on the stove. “It's...a particular shade of underwear.”

A loud guffaw breaks the quiet and Midorima flinches as he adds tea bags to their mugs. “I never thought I'd live to see the day when you'd speak to me about your bloomers!”

“I'm not wearing _bloomers_ , Takao. Now stop talking about my underwear. What I wear underneath my clothing is none of your business.”

“I could make it my business,” Takao teases, delighting in the way Midorima's cheeks flush.

Midorima finishes preparing their tea and scoots a steaming mug toward Takao. The rising heat smells like cinnamon and clove and Takao inhales the perfumed beverage like he does flowers in the spring.

“Speaking of business,” Midorima says suddenly, and Takao blanches. He knows that tone all too well, knows that Midorima is broaching something serious enough to fracture their casual air of comfort. He suddenly thinks back to several days after Haizaki punched him in the face. _It's not broken. It may not even be fractured. You're going to heal just fine._

“Yeah?” Takao presses the mug against his palms to keep his hands occupied. He's recently started cracking his knuckles when he gets nervous but Midorima hates the sound. “Wait, is this about your hand-washing? Because I meant to tell you that you actually seem to be doing a little better. Maybe not at school, but even I feel the need to scour my skin there after you told me how much bacteria lives on everything in public places.” Takao pulls a face and shakes his head.

Midorima looks at him for a long moment and Takao can feel his heart shivering beneath those green eyes. “Am I? Doing better, I mean.”

Takao turns the mug slowly in his hands and nods. “Yep! I think Shūtoku is a welcome distraction for you.”

Midorima's cheeks darken, shifting from a pale pink to rose-red. “I think it actually...has a lot to do with you.” Midorima clears his throat quickly and Takao can see his brain working faster than a bullet train. “That's what I'd like to talk to you about.”

“Me? Or hand-washing? Because one of those things is unlike the other” –Takao pauses– “and one of them is a lot more interesting.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Teikō,” Midorima supplies without delay.

It takes Takao by surprise and he doesn't respond for a moment. “Am I having a weird Back to the Future moment or...?”

Midorima smiles faintly and shakes his head. “No. There are a lot of things that I never told you and I think...I think I'm ready now. If you'd like to know.”

Takao suddenly feels sick. He feels like something is growing inside of his stomach and he doesn't know why a topic that should be elementary, uncomplicated, is lining his palms with sweat. But he wants to be supportive because above all else, he's Midorima's best friend, and if he wants to talk about this, then Takao wants to be there for him.

“Yeah, sure, Shin-chan. I'm all ears!” Takao says, grateful for how steady and unsuspecting his voice sounds.

Midorima presses his lips together and nods once, his hands cradling his mug too tightly. “Can we...can we go to your room?”

Takao's initial reaction is to make some kind of a perverted joke but with the way Midorima's holding tension in his shoulders, and the sound of his voice, Takao simply nods in assent. He leads the way down the hall and thinks about how nearly every significant thing that's ever shifted their relationship has happened in his room. He feels his throat go dry and has to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth when he sits down on his bed. He places his mug on his bedside table and folds his hands between his knees, willing his legs to stay still.

“So what's up?” he asks after Midorima closes his door behind him. “Am I finally going to get all of those juicy details about...”

It's as if time stands still for a nanosecond, and when it restarts it's in slow-motion. Takao can see the way Midorima's knees tremble, the way his grip goes too firm, then not firm enough, he can make out the sound of shattering glass before the mug hits his floor and hot tea hisses against the wood.

Takao is at his side in a second, his fingers digging into Midorima's shoulder to keep him steady. He bites down on his bottom lip when a shard of ceramic cuts into the arch of his foot, but the pain means nothing in the shadow of Midorima's muddy gaze and bleached complexion.

“Shin-chan? Baby...what is it?”

Midorima looks like he's lost a part of himself when he looks at Takao, his lips parted for breath and tears spilling over the long lines of his lashes. When he finally speaks, his voice cracks and the sound of anguish opens up Takao's heart in the most painful way possible.

“I think I need help.”


	18. Somewhat Damaged

Takao helps Midorima over to his bed, leaving a thin trail of blood in the places where he's been, parallel to wet footprints. It's unsurprising that Midorima notices the red smudge and spatter on Takao's floor. He pulls his mouth into a frown and it's almost astonishing—how fast he can will his tears to stop flowing to take care of Takao.

Midorima makes to stand but Takao hastily slaps his hand down on Midorima's shoulder to keep him firmly in place. “I'll take care of it. I promise. But right now, I'd like to know what's on your mind.”

“I can't sit here and tell you about my life when you need medical attention, Takao,” Midorima tells him, his voice skimming an edge of admonition.

Takao laughs because he associates needing medical attention with requiring stitches, hemorrhages, heart attacks, and strokes. He knows, however, that Midorima won't budge once he's set on something so he grudgingly concedes.

“I'll clean up the floor,” he says, watching Midorima closely. “The kit's out of bandages but there's a box in the bathroom. Top shelf, I believe.”

Midorima shakes his head, and while Takao's injury makes for a welcome distraction, his complexion is an unhealthy pallor. “Gauze and antibiotic cream will work best. I'll remove the foreign object, apply the cream, then wrap your foot. You'll want to wear socks for a while, to avoid any bacteria getting into the wound. I'd rather be abundantly cautious than risk you getting an infection.”

Takao bites back a smile, though it's not with difficulty; he's not feeling overly amused or delighted at the present moment. His mind is overflowing with dark thoughts, unanswered questions, and a plethora of fear—but history has taught him enough that he knows if he's not careful, he'll be working himself into a state bordering on hysteria in no time. He steadies his breathing and stumbles onto the bed. He sits down and drapes his leg over Midorima's lap, surprised by Midorima's lack of comment.

Midorima's face shifts into an expression of hard-edged focus as he examines Takao's foot. Takao is half-expecting Midorima to leave for tweezers and medical gloves but then he's pressing his thumbnail in against the ball of his foot while simultaneously removing the glass from the arch.

“Do you have any tissues?” Midorima asks, and Takao nods at the narrow table beside his bed. To his surprise, Midorima arches an eyebrow in an accusatory manner. He retrieves two tissues and presses them against the arch of Takao's foot.

“I have seasonal allergies, Shin-chan,” Takao chides casually. “The nail was a nice touch, by the way. I didn't feel a thing.”

Midorima's mouth twitches on a brief smile. “You should clean the affected area before I apply the medication. Be careful not to step on the injury,” Midorima tells him, delicately removing the tissue and inspecting the nearly transparent layers for blood. “You should be okay if you're mindful. You don't seem to be bleeding much.”

“Sure thing, Doc. I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.” Takao slides off of his bed and limps out of the room dramatically. Once out in the hall, he shouts: “Man, is this how old people feel when they have to get from place to place?”

“Don't be disrespectful, Takao. You'll be old one day yourself. Be that as it may, we're currently the same age and I happen to have impeccable hearing. You don't need to speak so loudly.”

Takao smiles as he washes the blood and the tea from his skin. “Only one of us has the hearing of a bat, Shin-chan.” He grabs a towel and dries his foot, wincing when he drags the fibers over the clean line of open skin.

“That wouldn't be the case if you didn't listen to music at dangerous decibels. It's as if you _want_ to lose your hearing.”

Takao hears the click of glass as it strikes the bottom of his wastebasket. “It's a good thing I emptied the trash yesterday. You'd be having an apoplectic fit if I hadn't,” he ribs playfully. Then he balls up his towel, removes his foot from the edge of the sink, and staggers out into the hall where he nearly collides with Midorima.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he teases, holding out his hand for the wet fabric in Midorima's too-tight grip. “I'll throw them in the wash.”

“I'll take care of it. Go sit down.” Midorima tugs the towel out of Takao's grip, already walking toward the converted linen closet when Takao suddenly recognizes the material Midorima's holding.

“Is that my Ukiyo-e Samurai shirt?” Takao exclaims.

Midorima looks down at the shirt, then over his shoulder. “No. Scandal is printed across the chest and there's a group of girls pictured beneath.”

Takao elicits a cry of anguish. “That's even worse! You wiped up my floor with the talented faces of prolific rock artistry.”

Midorima looks momentarily confused. “I don't even know who these people are.”

Takao dramatically sinks to his knees and holds his head in his hands. “I'm so sorry, Rina. I'm sorry he doesn't know who you are. You're a monster, Shin-chan.”

Midorima chuckles then. “It's a black shirt, Takao. You'll never know what it was used for once it's been washed.”

“I'll know. I'll never forget that you nonchalantly sullied the face of my first and last female crush.” Takao crawls forward, holding his injured foot up away from the floor as he makes his way into his room. “I'll never be able to look at her the same way again.” He disappears through his doorway but makes sure Midorima can hear him when he says: “You should be ashamed of yourself, Shin-chan!”

He jumps up to his feet, convinced that he can hear the sound of Midorima rolling his eyes and rifles through his desk for a box of _Kinoko No Yama_. He hears the shuffle of Midorima's feet and throws himself down on his bed, draping his arm across his forehead for added effect.

“Stop being so dramatic, Takao.” Midorima collects the small assortment of items he'd obtained during Takao's absence and joins him on the bed. “And don't eat junk food.”

“I haven't even opened the box yet!”

Midorima lifts Takao's calf away from the bed and scoots over just enough to place his injured foot atop his thigh. “You're always complaining about how clear my skin looks compared to yours. That's your answer. I don't eat junk as you do. Either learn to accept your face for how it looks or stop filling up your body with garbage.”

“You don't seem to mind my face,” Takao blurts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don't, but I haven't been the one complaining.” Midorima applies a blob of cream to Takao's skin and it takes every grain of Takao's control to keep from yanking his foot away.

“That tickles,” he grouses.

“I'm almost finished.” Midorima wraps a fair amount of gauze around Takao's foot, winding it in a way that it can't work itself free. He gently pats Takao's leg when he's finished and tosses a pair of clean socks at his head. “Put those on.”

“This has been quite an ordeal. I feel like I lost a limb or something.”

“You're not out of the woods yet. If you don't keep that clean, you risk bacterial infection. That can turn into necrotizing fasciitis, you know. Rare instances do not equate to beyond the bounds of possibility. Injuries, no matter how small, are nothing to scoff at. You need to take good care of your body.”

“Okay, Dr. Hinohara. I get it. I'll always take the stairs and carry my own stuff.” Takao pulls himself up into a sitting position and eyes Midorima curiously. “If you could live to be that old, would you? Like if it were a choice, would you _choose_ to live to be over one-hundred?”

“If that's what fate decides for me...”

“Okay, I should have seen that coming. But humor me. Forget fate and destiny and all that stuff. It's a bubble on a shitty multiple-choice test. You have the option to fill in answer D, the one that represents age one-hundred and five. Do you choose it?”

Midorima ponders the question and Takao carefully pulls a sock over the gauze encircling his foot. When Midorima finally manages to breach the surface of his thoughts, the crest in his mind breaking over the sandy limestone of his instincts, he shakes his head; but he looks worried, like some deep intrinsic part of him is betraying his decreed kismet.

“I don't think so. At least, not right now. Maybe if I grow to be a successful practitioner, then I might be more apt to stick around but one-hundred and five seems like too long to...”

Takao can virtually feel the weight bearing down on Midorima's shoulders, so he decides to snuff out the tension instead of light the fuse. “I'm hurt, Shin-chan. You could have chosen to live ninety more years in my company. You didn't even consider me.”

“It was a broad question, one that requires divergent thinking. If I take your company into consideration, I most definitely don't want to live that long.”

Takao laughs and pushes his uninjured foot into Midorima's thigh. “Very funny, Shin-chan.”

“Would you? Choose to live that long?”

Takao huffs a breath through his nose. “No way, man. Live fast, die young.” He expects Midorima's look of disapproval but not the hurt that materializes behind his glasses. Takao hastily clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders. “I don't know. I guess it depends on where I'm at in my life.” He pauses for a brief moment and steals a glimpse of Midorima from beneath the dark lines of his lashes. The other boy is staring down at his loose hands. “So, are you dead-set on being a doctor?”

Redirecting the conversation doesn't seem to allay the demons monopolizing Midorima's mind entirely, but it helps. Midorima tears his focus away from his hands and Takao is moving to make room for him before he even pushes himself back on the bed. Midorima pulls his feet up onto the covers and crosses his legs, his body facing Takao's directly. He picks at a loose thread on Takao's blanket and worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I think I'd like to be a brain surgeon.”

“Holy shit, Shin-chan! Go big or go home I guess, but that's some serious weight to pull there. I don't think I could handle that kind of responsibility. I'd be afraid that I'd get scared mid-surgery or something and” –Takao makes a slicing motion– “ _I'm sorry for carving a 6-inch incision into your brain meat, Mr. Miyaji_.”

“Miyaji?” Midorima raises an eyebrow and tries not to smile.

“What? It's a common name,” Takao answers, laughing.

Midorima presses his lips together and the look on his face tells Takao that he's not buying it, but he stays quiet nonetheless.

“I sometimes think about being a nurse, though.” Takao advances. “I get the appeal of helping people. I used to want to be a comedian but I think that bringing my sense of humor into that kind of workplace would be more...beneficial? I mean, doctors are oftentimes too serious, and sometimes people just need a good laugh to lessen the load.”

“You want to be the next Patch Adams?”

Takao smiles and he knows that his cheeks are flushing. “More or less, I guess. I'll be better though. I'll be the ray of sunshine that breaks through every sick person's low-hanging clouds.”

Midorima looks torn between heckling Takao for what he's just said and admiring his dedication. He embraces silence and commits himself to the snags in Takao's timeworn blanket.

“So...” Takao begins uncomfortably after half a beat of apprehension. “I don't know how you feel about it now but...you had wanted to talk about something.”

Midorima tugs his legs closer to his body and swallows thickly. “Yeah...”

A pregnant pause hangs between them and Takao waits until the sands of his patience run through the cracks in his fingers. “You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. If you've changed your mind–”

“I want to tell you. I need to... I have to tell someone.” Midorima attempts to clear his throat but the sound breaks in his chest instead. Takao watches him closely, afraid that he's going to start hyperventilating, or that he's going to start crying again.

Takao nods once, and then without thinking, he scoots closer to Midorima and curls his fingers around the taller boy's calf. “I'm here. Take your time.” He tries to sound confident, tries to find his twelve, thirteen-year-old self, the boy who never felt as afraid as he does at this moment—he tries to grasp at that fearlessness, the courage he felt as a kid, tries to unearth the boy who wore recklessness on his shirt sleeve like it was cool, who was always out to lunch because anything was better than being stuck inside of his hyperactive brain.

He fails— _miserably_ at that—because the look on Midorima's face makes pain lance through his heart like a 16-inch knitting needle has been plunged into the center of his chest via superhuman strength.

Midorima inhales a slow, deep breath and whispers something to himself that sounds like self-named encouragement. “This isn't just... The information I'm about to tell you doesn't pertain to...” He exhales a huff of breath framed in annoyance. “Not everything that happened at Teikō revolves around me. It's important to me that you know that.”

Takao attempts to swallow the hard lump that's formed in his throat. “Okay. Duly noted.”

Midorima gestures with a curt nod. “It's taken me a long time to come to the decision that I am going to tell you everything. I realize that this is ill-mannered and inconsiderate since the stories of my former teammates aren't mine to tell. But I was there, I witnessed what happened. It _involved_ me, and while I couldn't do anything then, I can bring light to it now.” Midorima's voice cracks and he chuckles but there's no humor or joy in the sound. “Not that it can make much of a difference now. What's done is done.”

Takao wets his lips and squeezes Midorima's leg in what he hopes is enough to imbue the green-eyed boy with reassurance. “Whatever you're about to tell me won't leave this room.”

“I need you to promise me that, Takao,” Midorima says, and he looks as if he's dragged his spirit from the stars. “I also need you to remember that everything I'm about to tell you is in the past. I want it to stay there after tonight. I can't have you acting on any of the information I disclose during this conversation.”

“For fuck's sake, Shin-chan. I feel like I'm signing a waiver in blood here. How bad did things get there?” Takao tugs at the collar of his shirt nervously. He suddenly feels like he's centered beneath the summer sun and not stationed in the middle of the bed in his room.

“Promise me, Takao,” is Midorima's only response.

“I promise,” Takao vows with another squeeze to Midorima's leg. “I've never deceived you before, have I? I'm not going to start now.”

Midorima doesn't need to consider this because it's true. Takao would rather cut out his own tongue than betray Midorima's trust. They both know that there's too much on the line: too much history, too many memories, an excess of emotions, and a surplus of feelings. They share in the mutual fondness of friendship and the tangibility of shared attraction. What they have is unrivaled in its power and significance.

Midorima closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing for a moment, and Takao imagines pieces of his mentality slowly coming together like cloud-forms and early morning sky-tints. He exhales a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and clenches his fist like he can choke out the last dregs of his self-control—Midorima needs him to be patient, that much he can tell.

When it begins, it doesn't stop, it's a torrent of language and breath but Takao feels like he's standing out in the rain, water heavy as lead drenching him to the bone. He didn't know how much tragedy existed in the retrospect of Midorima's past. He thinks he can hear Midorima's breath incinerate and crackle as though the words he's speaking are filling his lungs up with fire. He speaks quickly like the pieces of the past he keeps beneath his skin are going to reduce him to ashes.

He tells Takao about how things began: when he first noticed the shift in Akashi's eyes and the little nuances that preceded the slash and sweep of a drastic transformation. There's hurt in his voice and Takao feels his chest fill with anger, guilt, and sadness. He realizes that throughout Teikō's history, Midorima had lost a friend, a companion at school where he didn't exactly fit in given his peculiar mannerisms and atypical behaviors.

Takao learns that things had been falling apart for a while but Murasakibara was the one to ultimately push Akashi over the edge. What was once ordinary punishment rapidly evolved into cruel and contemptible castigation. Such as, how taking one of Murasakibara's snacks away for each time he made a mistake unfolded into something much darker—Akashi began to force him into a state of surfeit by an excess of food. Murasakibara would be pushed to practice, which, of course, overwhelmed his body and subjected him to violent bouts of vomiting.

Kise would be put into isolation because he was drawn to attention like a moth to a flame. He hated being alone—and while this was fairly obvious to anyone who spent five minutes in his company—he made the mistake of saying that sitting alone on a Friday night was the worst possible scenario for someone like him. The following day he would find himself locked inside a lightless supply closet with nothing but white static to keep him company. That's when Kise started the bad habit of scratching at his arms and legs until they bled, subsequently putting his modeling career in jeopardy.

Aomine was harder to discipline. He had a stubborn spirit and willfully distanced himself from the other Miracles, with the exception of Kuroko—but even that flame had to die after a while. Akashi's impressive insight and ability to foretell the future allowed him to see that Aomine would wind up being his own worst enemy. He had a terrible habit of bottling up his emotions, and while he appeared to be impassive and unaltered on the outside, he was falling apart on the inside. He hated not being able to do anything to help his teammates but he had no outlet to turn to when things got bad.

“Everything Akashi did came down to a sick test of wills, a game of psychological warfare. I couldn't help but wonder what exactly he was taught when he received special training to prepare him for the day he inherited his father's business.” He notes Takao's furrowed brow. “He's the heir to a leading Japanese business conglomerate.”

Takao tries to wet his lips as he intends to speak, but his tongue is so void of moisture that the cracks lining his mouth stay unchanged. “What about Kuroko? Where does he fit into all of this?”

“Kuroko was Akashi's favorite. That in itself was enough to drive a wedge between Kuroko and Kise. Despite outer appearances, Kise is very insecure. He needs approval like the brain needs oxygen to function. Kuroko had already formed a close bond with Aomine, whom Kise adored and idolized, so Akashi's unhealthy affection toward Kuroko was enough to push him over the edge. Kise began overworking himself to the point of exhaustion.” Midorima reflects on the memory for a moment before continuing, a sad look overtaking his features.

“At first, we thought that Kuroko was exempt from Akashi's abuse but I believe that despite everything, he suffered the worst. It was easy to miss at the outset but Kuroko had started premeditating mistakes to draw the worst of Akashi's attention away from us and onto himself. Akashi would never punish Kuroko in front of us, but you couldn't miss the bruises the following day. We knew that he didn't come from an abusive home, and while we didn't want to face the truth, we knew that he had entered a vicious cycle of protecting us while taking on the sole responsibility of Akashi's domestic violence.”

Midorima takes a brief moment to collect himself, and Takao wants to fill the silence but he can't think of anything to say. Therefore, when Midorima continues speaking, Takao starts in surprise.

“Ironically, Haizaki of all people may have tried to warn Kuroko the day he was forced to leave the team. Kuroko hadn't thought much of it then but when Haizaki turned his back on him he'd said: _Those of you who remain might end up needing far more pity than I ever will_. At that point, he'd already gotten a taste of the person Akashi was becoming. Whatever took place between them was obviously bad enough that even Haizaki felt pressure to say _something_.”

“Okay, but like...I hate to be the person who asks the obvious question here...but why couldn't anyone do anything? Couldn't you have turned to _someone_? Akashi might have some weird otherworldly sadistic powers but he can't be invincible.”

Midorima smiles softly but there's no warmth in it. “Akashi doesn't know defeat. He's never been wrong about anything in his life. I don't know how it's possible, and I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't experienced his supremacy first hand. I may have been the first to notice the switch, along with Kuroko, but Akashi was like a wolf in sheep's clothing, lying in wait for the right moment to come along to strip himself of the skin he no longer felt was thick enough. It was similar to how a wolf attacks its prey, except Akashi sunk his teeth into his own neck and let himself be dragged away—consumed by this separate personality that had manifested inexhaustible apathy and detachment.”

Midorima steels himself and begins tugging at the loose thread again. “The problem with Teikō was that as long as we were winning, nothing else mattered. Teikō espoused a _don't fix what's not broken_ mentality. Anything other than victory was unacceptable. Even close games were unsatisfactory. We were the strongest team in history and it had to stay that way. The pressure of needing to win became...unbearable. The media, the audience, _everyone_ expected us to win. We were treated like heroes, like we were saving lives instead of playing what was supposed to be a game. Public relations quickly became the most valuable thing, a good way to aggrandize Teikō. At the end of the day, psychologically, we couldn't afford to make mistakes. So we did as we were told and harbored everything else.”

“But that's bullshit! You might have been victorious but your team was breaking! How could anyone view that as triumph or success?” Takao doesn't realize that he jumped off of his bed until he starts pacing his floor. “This wasn't like two team members not getting along or something easily fixed. What he did to you...” Takao pauses and immediately comes to understand that he hasn't heard Midorima's story yet. He suspects that Midorima's been avoiding it since the start, the other horror stories enough to distract from himself. His gut twists violently and he almost doesn't want to ask, but he has to know—he won't ever get the thorns of curiosity out of his mind if he doesn't ask, and he doesn't want to live permanently in suspension. He needs to know this if they're going to move forward; they've passed over the substructure, now all that's left is to reach the superstructure. Though, Takao knows that falling from such great heights is going to hurt a lot more than starting at the bottom.

“What did he do to you, Shin-chan?” he spontaneously blurts and he feels like he's combusting. “You're the only piece left to this gruesome puzzle.”

Midorima stares at a spot on the wall until his eyes burn. He doesn't blink until Takao couches down next to him and covers his piano hands with his own milky skin. “I can't imagine what you're going through right now but I'm here for you. I'll _always_ be here for you. And I'm sure this hurts a whole fucking lot, you're bringing up memories that you probably _begged_ to forget, but I'm proud of you for talking about it. You need to get it out because keeping this shit inside is no different than letting him lord this over you. He's not in control of you anymore, okay? He never was. He just put you in a position he knew you couldn't escape. He manipulated you and you're not at fault for that.”

“He broke my fingers.” Midorima continues to stare at the wall and Takao doesn't know how he spoke without Takao catching the shift of his mouth. He gapes at Midorima, his body paralyzed by the shock gripping his heart.

“That's...are you sure?” It's such a foolish question that Takao hates himself for asking it as soon as it leaves his mouth. “How did I not notice?”

Midorima shutters his gaze and Takao watches a tear leak out of the corner of his eye. “He wanted to teach me how to be the strongest. If I could cope with the pain, then I could do anything. He never tried to convince me that bones grow back stronger because he knew that I—that I knew better. There's no evidence to support...” Midorima struggles to swallow. “He knew that I wouldn't make mistakes after that. I've never disguised how important my hands are to me. I didn't want to be the one who backed down or caused a scene, so I learned how to manage the pain well enough. I hadn't made many mistakes in the beginning but when everything started to fall apart, I lost to Murasakibara. I don't think I would have had things been different but I wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind. One day, he was able to stop my shots and...” He hesitates briefly, then continues as succinctly as he can. “I didn't blame him. How could I? We were all just trying to cope with what was happening. But that's when...he broke three of the fingers on my right hand. I'm honestly surprised he didn't harm my left hand. It's not as if they needed my shots to win matches at that point. But it was more about making a statement rather than the pain itself...”

Takao feels every stitch of control leave his body, like what he's heard has manifested itself into something tangible and is making away with pieces of him. He loses his balance and lets his knees collide with the floor because he doesn't have the strength to catch himself. He stares at the boy who holds summer fields in his hazy eyes even when winter steals the air. The boy he's loved nearly his whole life. The boy he's dreamed about since they were too short to reach sinks and cabinets without a stool. The boy who appears frigid and cold but feels warm like sun-kissed skin. The boy who's fresh like peppermint and soft like cotton, and marshmallows, and flower petals. The boy he sees in _everything_.

The boy who deserves so much better than the life he's been given.


	19. Sticky Like Honey

For all the weight that had come with Midorima's story, contrarily, an even larger weight had been lifted. Takao had expected, or at least hoped, that Midorima would feel some sense of relief from talking about his past, but he had no idea how much the recountal of events would affect him, too.

It took a union of tears, silence, and softly spoken reassurances to move past what had happened, but once they did, Takao worked on convincing Midorima to stay the night. He felt like a sculptor slowly chipping away at stone but eventually, Midorima conceded.

After a phone call that cut to his mother's voicemail and the convincing excuse that their civics project ran overtime, Midorima renounces the routine that calls him home.

“So what would you like to do? I know that it's been a long day, but we still have some time left. We could play a game or watch a movie or–”

“I would like to wash up first,” Midorima tells him. “If you don't mind.”

Takao knows that he's not really asking but he nods all the same. “Yeah, that's fine. You know where the bathroom is. Just be careful. I know how you are, and I know that you've already showered at least twice today. If you keep that up, I'm going to have to slather you in so much lotion that you'll look like an over-frosted cake.”

The corner of Midorima's mouth twitches in an attempt to bite back a smile. He stretches out his legs, wincing as the pain that's specific to staying stationary for too long courses through his limbs. Once he no longer feels the threat of cramping, he makes his way over to his gym bag.

“You have spare clothes in there, don't you?” Takao asks flatly.

Midorima looks confused and Takao wants to reach out and touch the little wrinkle that settles between his eyebrows. “Of course. Why?”

“I was really hoping that you'd have to borrow mine. I was looking forward to seeing you in a crop top and booty shorts.”

“Shut up, Takao. You know I always come prepared, nanodayo.”

Takao smiles and flaps his hand at the door. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Next time, I'll have to come up with a way to steal your clothes when you're not looking.”

Midorima looks all too unimpressed and Takao laughs. “I'm _joking_. Now go take care of your OCD while I get out of these clothes. Not that I mind you staying, if you want to sneak a peek.”

Midorima exhales a tired sigh and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Takao, I've already seen you naked.”

Takao forces a high-pitched sound up the back of his throat in the frame of surprise. “You're a pervert, Shin-chan! How dare you ogle my bits without my permission! Don't you know that ladies have delicate sensibilities? The least you could have done was taken me out to dinner first.”

Midorima arches an eyebrow. “Are you finished?”

“That depends. Are you going to let me spoil you tonight without getting your panties in a twist?”

“I don't wear...” Midorima sighs. “Will it get you to shut up for more than five minutes?”

Takao pretends to consider the bargain for a moment, then smacks his lips together with a perfunctory _pop_. “You have yourself a deal, Shin-chan.” He thrusts out his hand dramatically and Midorima rolls his eyes as he takes it to placate Takao with a pithy handshake.

Takao watches Midorima leave his room and waits for the bathroom door to close before he collapses on his bed. He drapes an arm over his head and exhales a slow breath as he notes the lines and imperfect indentations inscribing his ceiling like a secret language he isn't supposed to understand. He thinks about the past several hours, marveling at how so much unraveled in such a short span of time. He thinks the coming days will drop anchor with a fair share of problems but something tells him, _promises him_ , that he and Midorima will get through the hardships together.

It isn't unlike when Haizaki punched him in the face and he had to forebear the urge to play basketball while waiting for Midorima to determine whether or not he'd suffered from a break. The pain was immediate but time healed him slowly, _Time will_ _always be the cure for what ails you_ , his mother once said. And while trying to be patient was akin to forcing his limbs to sit still for longer than several minutes, Takao managed. His mother was right and not-breaking his nose was another hurdle he could add to the list of things he'd overcome.

He just hopes that this antecedent obstruction isn't so monumental that it hampers Midorima's ability to scale its rampart of blades and broken hearts.

“I thought you were going to change,” Midorima says. He moves into the center of the room in a fresh set of clothes, smelling of clean skin and Takao's soap.

“Why?” Takao shouts, sitting bolt upright and curling his fingers around the front of his shirt.

Midorima shoots him an analytical look and pulls his mouth into a tight frown. “Why, what? You're the one who said–”

“You scared the shit out of me! I didn't expect you to finish so quickly.” Takao slides to the edge of his bed and smirks, his eyes following a bead of water that slides down the smooth column of Midorima's neck. “I must admit, if this is a sign of future things to come, I'm a little underwhelmed.”

Midorima looks nonplussed and it's as clear as the lenses covering his gaze that Midorima doesn't catch the playful innuendo.

Midorima ignores him, not unlike every other time he doesn't understand Takao's sense of humor—which, bless him, happens a lot—and returns his bag to the bare stretch of floor next to the rest of his belongings. “Well, what obnoxious thing did you decide for us?”

“I haven't gotten that far yet,” Takao admits, dusting his toes against the floor.

“If you haven't decided by now, I worry that you're going to hurt something if you keep rifling through options. What's so complicated about deciding between two mindless activities?”

“I'll have you know, _Shin-chan_ , that entertainment is not mindless. It does a body good. It might not amount to much but it's meant to relax you” –Takao pauses for effect– “then again, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

Midorima rolls his eyes and leans against Takao's desk to tug on his socks. “I know how to relax, Takao.”

“Would you ever let me give you a massage?” Takao utters as suddenly as he bounces over to his closet. “I'm actually really good at them. I think it could do you some good. I can't imagine how tense your body must be, especially considering the trajectory of your shots. Your arms probably hate you.”

“You don't need to sell me a massage, Takao.” Midorima's voice is softer than it was only seconds ago. He unzips the bag opposite the one that held his clothes and retrieves his laptop. “That sounds quite nice, actually.”

Takao tugs on the shirtsleeve of an oversized sweater. “Really? And here I was thinking up ways to sweeten the deal. Cool. I'll make... _What the fuck is this stuck on_?” Takao yanks on the fabric and the top shelf of his closet teeters threateningly. A box shifts but doesn't cave to gravity, and Takao exhales a breath of relief seconds before a basketball bonks him on the head. “Well, fuck you too,” he scoffs.

“Akashingō!” Midorima scolds. “How many times do I have to reiterate that swearing makes you sound unintelligent? Also, things like that wouldn't happen if you tidied up your closet. Who knows what kinds of things are living in there. Not to mention, the _bacteria_.”

“That's a matter of opinion. And while the stars in your eyes line up to mine, we don't see eye to eye on the benefits of swearing. Sorry, Shin-chan, but no amount of discipline or soap can take the naughty bits out of my mouth.” Takao pauses before a loud guffaw rushes past his lips. “That is _not_ the direction I was aiming for. And my closet is just fine, thank you! It's what's known as the leading edge of interior design.”

Midorima sighs with the wind that gently rattles Takao's window. “Takao, get dressed for bed so we can pick out a movie. I'm already staying up later than I normally would for you.”

Takao quickly strips down to his boxers and replaces his previous attire with the baggy sweater and its too-longs sleeves. He kicks the pile of clothing on the floor in the general direction of the closet then says: “I'll be right back.” He rushes out of his room before Midorima can complain and half-jogs to the kitchen. He digs through the freezer for a small container of azuki mocha ice cream—he'd been saving it for an 'emergency' and he figures tonight is as good as any. He grabs two spoons out of a utensil caddy on the counter, then a few napkins. On the way back to his room, he steals a fluffy blanket from the back of the couch.

“I have arrived with accouterments!” Takao chimes as he enters his room. He hands Midorima a spoon and lets the blanket slip free of his arms and onto the bed.

“That's not what that means,” Midorima supplies, but he's smiling warmly.

“It does if that's what I want it to mean.” Takao waits for Midorima to arrange his limbs on his borrowed side of Takao's bed before joining him. He notices that the laptop is already open and signed into Netflix. “Okay, so what are we feeling?”

Midorima takes the ice cream out of Takao's hand and shrugs. “I don't watch movies unless I'm with you. I don't even know what's popular right now, so you might as well be the one to pick something.”

Takao stares at Midorima, a wide smile on his lips that speaks of nothing but affection.

“What?” Midorima pops the lid off of the ice cream container, then slants his gaze in Takao's direction. “Why are you staring at me?”

“I just can't help but get all warm and fuzzy inside when you do these sweet little things for me.” It sounds like teasing but Takao isn't lying. Midorima himself may not be privy to all of the small things he does for Takao, but that doesn't make them any less appreciated.

“I don't know what I did but okay...” Midorima stabs his spoon into the cold dessert and waits for Takao to select a movie.

“You always hold the ice cream because you know that I'm a wimp when it comes to how cold it is.” Takao selects one of his favorite movies— _The Host_ —then leans back against the wall, wielding his spoon like a weapon. “Let the snacking commence!”

“Sometimes hanging out with you is physically painful,” Midorima tells him, but the corners of his mouth are turned upwards.

“Then you must be a real masochist because you cling to me like a limpet, baby.” Takao spears the ice cream and tucks a large spoonful into his mouth, cringing at the rush of cold against his teeth.

After their spoons scrape nothing but cardboard, Takao bundles Midorima up in the stolen couch blanket. He slides beneath his bed blankets and puts a pillow on his lap. He's already planned on having to coax Midorima into a new position, but Midorima readjusts his limbs and does so without Takao's persuasion. Takao thinks about commenting but he says nothing as the movie plays on, and they both watch the screen as Takao absently plays with Midorima's hair.

Halfway through the movie, Takao can tell by the shift of Midorima's breathing that he's fallen asleep. He smiles down at the green-haired boy and thinks about reaching out to touch his face. He imagines running his thumb along the line of his jaw for no other reason than wanting to, and he knows now that Midorima probably wouldn't mind. Something in that piece of information offers Takao a sense of security. It fills his heart with warmth and imbues him with a sureness he can't recall ever having in his life.

He places a sleeve-covered hand on Midorima's cheek and watches the movie until his body grows heavy with fatigue and the light burns his oculi. He rests his head against the wall to his back and closes his eyes; _just for a few minutes,_ he thinks.

When he falls asleep, it's with thoughts of Midorima crowding his mind the way his touches kissed like honey, too sticky to erase. And what was a few turns of the clock rolls out like the tide.


	20. Fingertips

Shūtoku training is more rigorous than ever, and while Takao is no longer throwing up during practice, every ounce of his strength is wrung from him by the time he collapses onto his bed at night. It's a strange dichotomy, however, for as much as he's exhausted the following day, his adrenaline seems to stay at an all-time high. The sound of blood rushing in his ears is almost constant, and he can feel something like static buzzing through his veins throughout all hours of the day. Though, it's not the only thing that's become commonplace lately. Takao has taken to casually playing with Midorima's fingers when the urge to fidget becomes too much to bear. He didn't think Midorima would stand for it, but after telling him _As long as you don't start tampering with my nails, I don't mind_ , Takao couldn't help himself. His obsession with Midorima's hands has been steadily growing for months, and allegorically, he's finally reached an outcropping of rock and thrown himself over its edge—for Midorima's large and soft and perfect hands, Takao considers himself a goner.

School is manageable, at least, even with being a part of the health committee and the basketball team. Still, Takao is human, and sometimes he feels like he's drowning, like he's too deep to pull himself up to the surface. When this happens, he thinks of Midorima, and when that's not enough, he forces his attention into action, and oftentimes that means right on to paper. He writes little notes and slips them into Midorima's pockets, into his schoolbag, and his gym locker. Sometimes they're just short messages reminding Midorima how much he cares about him, other times, they're excerpts from his favorite songs. On the rare occasion, and much to Midorima's disdain, he'll deliver him crudely drawn pictures.

Although, lately he's stepped up his game. He's been showering Midorima with a bounty of random objects: keychains, stickers, red bean drinks, candy, and personal CD mixes full of songs that make Takao think of him when he's not around.

He knows that it's making him look like a sap but he doesn't care as long as he can continue to spoil Midorima by showering him with gifts. Lately, there are more things that Takao wants to do that are decidedly more physical but he knows that Midorima's not ready to embark on that journey yet, so Takao docks his urges and learns to appreciate what he has—which is smooth sailing if he's honest. He would spend the rest of his life with only his hand as a loving companion if it meant keeping Midorima in his life.

Furthermore, Midorima has recently come to understand that Takao finds joy in spoiling him, and instead of complaining, he issues soft _Thank-you's_ and has even taken to telling Takao which gifts he's particularly fond of. Not to mention, he's been personally delivering Takao his lucky item for weeks now.

Takao thinks that this is the most appreciated he's ever felt in his life.

They do well in the Interhigh preliminaries but ultimately, they lose in the finals to Kuroko's high school. Midorima is shocked, and Takao can't say that he blames him. No one had seen the loss coming, especially not in the preliminaries, and defeat certainly wasn't on Takao's agenda. Be that as it may, Takao knows that they'll just have to work harder as a team to enact their revenge in the winter.

What's most important to him is helping Midorima make it through the night.

Takao knows that Midorima respects Kagami in his own way—unlikely to ever admit it—but the new rival unintentionally stirred up a lot of bad memories for Midorima. While everyone knows that Shūtoku's ace is notoriously bad at asking for help, Takao and Midorima have something secret, something _special_. So when Midorima lays his head in Takao's lap and closes his eyes, Takao lets him bask in the warmth and the comfortable silence between them. He gently runs his fingers through Midorima's hair and scratches his nails against his scalp until his breathing evens out and Midorima knows that everything is going to be okay.

The day after the match, Takao is quick to realize that sometimes losing is for the better. It still hurts and he wishes that he could have experienced victory alongside his best friend and lifetime crush, but he now knows that falling doesn't have to equate to hitting rock bottom. In this peculiar instance, losing to Seirin seems to have aroused the dormant embers of Midorima's smoldering emotions—awoken something deep inside of him, something honest, and open, and true.

Midorima has been growing steadily more confident, not just in body and mind, but in his relationship with Takao. The three selfish requests he's given each day seem to carry over into their time alone, and while Midorima's demands are still very pure and innocuous, he's allowing himself to get closer to Takao in ways the dark-haired boy never imagined he would.

They're sitting on Takao's floor, fingers occasionally brushing, when Midorima begins to rub a hand over the back of his neck, a habit he's recently adopted from Takao.

“What is it, Shin-chan?” Takao asks, fingers drumming out a beat against his thigh.

“My hand keeps cramping up. I think it's from all the writing I've been doing lately.”

Takao wets his lips and moves to sit directly in front of Midorima. He crosses his legs and tries not to wince when his ankle drags against the hard resistance of the floor. “Give me your hand.”

Midorima furrows his brow in question but he offers Takao the affected appendage nonetheless. Takao immediately sets to work, gently smoothing his fingers over Midorima's hand. He presses his thumbs in against the heart of Midorima's palm and hums to himself as he works. After a moment, Takao steals a glimpse of the other's face. Midorima's eyes are just this side of glassy, half-lidded, and hazy with heat; his lips are damp with saliva and parted slightly for breath. It makes pleasure stir within Takao, makes heat crest in his veins, just from knowing that no one else gets to witness this side of Midorima.

“How does this feel?” Takao asks, still holding Midorima's hand and kneading the soft muscle and tissue beneath his fingers.

Midorima releases a sound that Takao promptly labels a purr. “It's nice.”

Takao grins and continues to work until the urge to kiss the palm of Midorima's hand becomes impossible to ignore. He watches Midorima's expression as he presses gentle kisses to his palm, then up every long digit. His mind enters overdrive and it's not surprising, his thoughts haven't surmounted beyond a constant spiral of Midorima Shintarō for years. This moment, however, seems to have captured the attention of one of the demons inside of him.

It's not often— _or ever, to his knowledge_ —that Midorima lets people intimately touch his hands.

Takao finds the straight overlay of tape on Midorima's index finger and scrapes the cool edges of his teeth over the seam. Midorima bodily shivers and his eyes flicker, then shutter entirely. Takao bites back a devious smile because he's most definitely storing this information away for later. He returns to innocently massaging the other's hand, unvirtuous thoughts locked tight in the deepest recesses of his mind.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Takao breaks the silence but Midorima doesn't flinch when he expects it. He hums an approval in place of verbal response, and Takao thinks that he needs to do this more often.

“Will you paint my fingernails?”

“What?” Midorima asks, surprised. His response makes Takao want to laugh at how convinced he is that he's heard him incorrectly.

“I want you to paint my fingernails.”

Midorima cracks open his eyes. “You know that's not allowed.” There's a brief pause, a moment of debate, then: “Why do you want to do something like that anyway?”

Takao shrugs as he begins to play with Midorima's fingers. “I think it looks cool. I know Shūtoku doesn't approve of it but it's going to be summer vacation soon. Practice comes with a different set of rules, and I don't think any of the guys'll disapprove. It's not like it's permanent.”

Midorima bites the inside of his cheek in thought. “This seems unusually important to you.”

Takao laughs awkwardly and chews on his bottom lip. Midorima leans forward and gently brushes his fingertips over Takao's mouth. “Stop that. Your lips look awful, you need to let them heal.”

Takao drives a spear through the desire to take Midorima's fingers into his mouth. “Yeah...” He wants to say more but he feels strangely uncomfortable with the idea of feeding this particular piece of information to Midorima. He feels fucking stupid in retrospect, but he can't help it. There's something so intimate in sharing, in admitting, in _voicing_ , what's presently running in circles around his cerebrum like an overzealous marathoner.

“Takao?”

Takao groans because he knows that Midorima isn't going to let this go. He inhales a breath and imagines the discharge of a starting gun. “I have a thing for your hands, okay?” He pulls his legs close to his body and hides his face in the crook of his arm.

Takao expects Midorima's stunned silence but not what follows the muffled reticence. “I don't quite understand...”

Takao emits a louder groan this time. “I know you're not stupid, Shin-chan.”

“I don't see how my intelligence has anything to do with this.”

Takao exhales a breath that seems to shift all through his body before leaving his lungs. “You're so helplessly adorable sometimes.” Takao braces himself for whatever look Midorima has on his face but when he raises his head, the other boy looks so utterly lost that Takao's explanation wavers for a moment. “I like your hands, like a lot.” Several beats later and dumbfounded is the only colorless word Takao can think of to properly express Midorima's current state of mind. “This feels similar to when you tried to teach me how to play shogi. That or you just like to make me suffer—okay, so your hands make me feel _a way_.”

Takao can see the dots connecting behind Midorima's eyes. “You have a fetish for my hands?”

“I knew we'd get there eventually,” Takao ribs, slightly relieved to not have to go into further detail.

Midorima's brow creases the way it does when he disapproves of something, and Takao hopes that it's directed at the teasing implication rather than the truth. “But what does that have to do with painting your fingernails?”

Takao stares at him for a long moment, then hides a shy smile behind his hands. “I completely forgot that's how we got to this point. I guess I got distracted when you touched my mouth.” He lowers his hands and steels himself. “I think about your hands an unhealthy amount. I suppose that your extensive hand-care was destined to wear off on me, in one way or another. As for my nails, I just like the idea of you doing something so... _gah_! I don't know!” –Takao throws his arms up in a defenseless gesture– “I just like watching you when you're focused. Plus, I really do think it looks cool.”

“You certainly have a strange sense of fashion, Takao. I can honestly say that I've never met anyone else who rotates between khakis and sweatshirts, and torn jeans and band tees. I don't know about you sometimes,” Midorima says, but his tone is light and almost playful. “If it's something you really want, I'll paint your nails. Though, I can't promise that I'll be very good at it.”

Takao smiles brightly and flattens himself down against his floor, arms stretched out above him. “I fall in love with you a little more each day, Shin-chan.” He folds his arms beneath his head. “It's gotta stop eventually, right? I mean, it's probably getting unhealthy at this point.”

Midorima says something that doesn't quite meet his ears but he does catch the resultant _nanodayo_ , and somehow, it's enough.


	21. Summer Weeds

Midorima does paint Takao's nails, and it's every bit as magnetic that Takao expected it to be. Midorima's focus is unshakable and his strong surgeon's hands are impressively steady. He paints each nail with a level of intimacy Takao can't name, but something about the exchange feels _right_ , and it's comfortable all the same.

He does it when they're staying at the summer training camp on the beach. And while Takao is excited to be participating in a yearly Shūtoku tradition, he hates the building they're staying in. It feels unwelcoming and cold, and he's almost afraid to turn the corner for what he might see waiting for him at the opposite end of the hall. It's ironic considering how unaffected Midorima is when he's always been the first to turn away from anything remotely close to horror. Though, he's recently started handling most things with an air of tranquility like repose has always lived just beneath the surface of his skin, warm as summer and smooth as velveteen cloth.

It's that sudden adjustment that makes Takao aware of the subtle change. It's not an impressive shift on its own, but it's what helps him realize that Midorima isn't as stiff as he used to be. He joins in conversations even when they're not directly aimed at him, discreetly encourages his teammates, and most surprisingly, he swears when he's frustrated or angry. He still possesses a stringent practical disposition but he's more relaxed when he's leading. Even his posture has relaxed, while still composed, the tension that he's forever held in his shoulders has eased into a natural sort of proper.

Miyaji is the only one to comment on the polish in the morning and Takao is unsurprised. “You can look like a punk if that's what you're going for but you better not act like one on the court.”

“I can't believe he thinks that I'm even capable of such behavior!” Takao exclaims.

“What reason would he have to think otherwise? You _are_ a punk,” Midorima tells him.

“Whose side are you on, Shin-chan?”

“The side of truth,” Midorima says flatly, peremptorily drawing a line in the sand.

Takao rolls his eyes. “Well, that's just stupid,” he mutters before somersaulting straight into a new topic. “Hey baby, what do you say we sneak a dip in the ocean tonight?”

Midorima looks at him as if he'd grown another head.

“Oh come on, Shin-chan. You need to step outside of your comfort zone once in a while. Do something fun.”

Midorima looks over each of his shoulders in turn, then back at Takao. “You just called me baby.”

It's Takao's turn to look puzzled. “I do that sometimes, yeah.”

“Here. You—there—our team is...”

Takao laughs and waves him off. “Oh yeah, I know. I decided to stop hiding how over the moon I am for you. I've already planned a speech. I even made a sign.”

Midorima looks slightly relieved but the expression falls almost immediately. “You didn't really, did you?”

Takao raises his eyebrows and shoots Midorima a look that says _really?_ “No, but I'm serious about the night-swimming thing. I need to start making more memories with you. What if something happens and you get accepted into some kind of elite school and we get separated again? Students are in med school for so long that people probably don't notice if they go missing. I don't even want to _think_ about it, but I can't bear the thought of it actually happening and us not having memories to comfort me at night when I'm alone and cold in bed because you abandoned me for brain matter and cold instruments.”

“This place is genuinely getting to you, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Takao laughs. “Pretty bad, actually.”

Ōtsubo claps his hands together and Midorima visibly jerks. “Come on, freshmen! Practice isn't going to execute itself. Get over here!”

Midorima considers Takao for a moment. “I'll do it, but we're doing things my way.”

“Ooh, I like it when you get all bossy,” Takao needles, his tone more flirtatious than he expects it to be. “Maybe I should hand you the reins more often.”

“You're not handing me anything, Takao. Especially since you haven't _washed_ your hands since this morning.” Midorima turns around and starts toward the Shūtoku members, leaving Takao to ponder the truth of his statement.

Practice is more difficult than Takao's used to. The sun bearing down on his body is too hot, making a fine sheen of sweat stick to his skin and soak through his shirt. It's as uncomfortable as the sand catching between his toes and the thrumming spasm of exertion that shifts into a universal kind of cramp—a contraction of every fiber of his body. These things, however, pale in comparison to a list of other distractions: Midorima's heavy-lidded but alert eyes, the flush on his cheeks, the sweat rolling down his long, muscular arms, the wind-blown mess of his hair that gives the appearance of having been tousled by Takao's fingers, the narrow sliver of flesh that appears when Midorima lifts his arms above his head, and lastly, the soft smile that rarely materializes but is always aimed at Takao.

Takao thinks that he's the most gorgeous person he's ever laid eyes on and his heart aches for it.

It feels like he has to wait half a lifetime for the silky cloak of nightfall to take to the sky. By the time it finally comes, his heart is hammering in his chest and his leg is bouncing so badly that it's almost nauseating.

“Would you settle down?” Midorima slants his gaze at Takao and massages the center of his forehead. “It's hardly worth getting so worked up over.”

“Who's worked up? I'm not worked up.” Takao says, too quickly.

“Right, and I'm not superstitious.”

Takao scoffs. “You just keep those negative vibes to yourself Shin-chan. I've got my own shit to sort out.”

“That's going to take a while. Should I ready myself for bed?”

“No!” Takao blurts. “You promised.” It sounds like a desperate threat and it makes Takao feel a little pathetic.

“I did not _promise_ , Takao.”

“You wouldn't do that to me.” Takao knows this much to be true.

Midorima tilts his head and briefly observes Takao's face. “You're right. I wouldn't.” He removes his watch and lays it out next to his futon, right next to a stuffed rabbit and a pack of light blue stationery. “It was nice of our seniors to let us have our own room.”

“Nice?” Takao snorts. “The only reason we got our own room is that they didn't want to put up with your strange antics.” He pauses. “Wait, unless you meant that in a totally different, unsavory way, 'cause if you did, you need to warn a guy.”

Midorima pinches the bridge of his nose. “Takao, you're exhausting.”

Takao smiles and swings his legs out in front of him. “That's how you know you're dealing with me, baby.”

Midorima sighs loudly and pushes himself into standing. “Let's just get this over with. I'd like to be asleep before Miyaji starts pounding on our door.”

Midorima makes his way over to the latticework partition and when he turns to look at Takao, the silver light of the moon casts him in marble, imposing and regal. It steals Takao's breath, and before he can hydrolyze the chemicals dancing around inside his head, he crowds Midorima against the wall. “You're so beautiful,” he whispers, then covers Midorima's mouth with his bitten lips.

The sound that breaks in Midorima's chest bleeds from his mouth like a whine, and it nearly sends Takao to his knees. He moans, and the vibration of it must do something to Midorima because he's tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Takao's neck, and when Takao crushes their lips together, he doesn't protest.

Takao braces his hand at the small of Midorima's back, his fingers glancing hot, smooth flesh where Midorima's shirt has ridden up. He hadn't realized how badly he needed this, how much he _lives_ for this feeling of closeness. It makes him feel vulnerable in the best way possible, and when Midorima gently tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, Takao loses his mind.

The kiss alternates between sweet and savage, lasts so long that Takao forgets about the need to breathe. Midorima, being the more perceptive and resourceful of the two, is the first to draw away for breath. He parts his lips and Takao has to quell the urge to lick into his mouth. Instead, he kisses down Midorima's chin, lays a trail as sweet as honey over to the thrumming pulse twitching beneath his skin. Takao applies more pressure to the base of Midorima's spine, holds him close as he sucks a bruise into the unyielding column of his neck.

“Takao,” Midorima whispers, hands moving to rest on Takao's hips.

“Fuck,” Takao exhales, his breath hot against the saliva drying on Midorima's neck. He draws back and fists his hand in Midorima's shirt to tug him over to the pair of futons spread out across the floor. Then, before he loses his courage and his will to speak he says, “Take off your shirt.”

The flush on Midorima's cheeks darkens and nervous fear flickers across his gaze. His eyes look enormous behind his glasses, pupils blown wide, irises darker than the emerald sky.

“I still owe you a massage, don't I?” Takao asks him, walking over to his borrowed hardshell suitcase. He hadn't bothered to close it earlier, the top open and resting against the wall. He reaches inside and finds the compartment he's looking for. He unzips the discreet pocket and retrieves a bottle of pure sweet almond oil.

He's almost afraid to turn around because he doesn't know what he'll find, but like most things in his life, he forgoes reason and takes the plunge. The weight in his heart lessens a little when he sees that Midorima has dropped to his knees, his tall frame centered on his futon, which is now covered in a blanket he brought from home.

The corner of Takao's mouth curves upward. “Let me guess—germs?”

Midorima flushes at that but he nods. “You never know what kind of people have stayed here before you.”

“With that logic, I'm surprised you came at all.”

Takao walks over to the futon and steals the rare opportunity to look down at Midorima. “How the fuck did I get so lucky?” Takao cards his fingers through Midorima's hair and sighs longingly.

Midorima looks up at him, his lips still red and damp from kissing and Takao wants to devour him. He feels like being this close to the boy he loves is spreading him thin, making quick work of his heart. White pinpricks of starlight pass over Midorima's gaze and Takao thinks _you could have me eating out of the palm of your hand if that's what you wanted_.

Takao swallows thickly and reaches out to trace the line of Midorima's jaw with the pad of his thumb. “I promise not to do anything you don't want me to.”

Midorima's eyes flicker to the bottle in Takao's hand. “I can't believe you brought that with you. Was this part of your plan? Did you even want to go swimming?”

Takao emits a huff of laughter but it's more breath than volume. “No, it wasn't planned, not exactly, and yeah, I did want to go swimming but we can do that whenever. Kissing you has a way of fucking with my original intentions and right now, I don't give a shit about what's out there when I have you in here. I just need to get my hands on you.”

Midorima visibly shivers at that, and Takao feels the chill by proxy but it's anything but cold. It flashes through him like a flare of rebellious spirit and shoots straight to his groin.

“Akashingō,” Midorima whispers.

And Takao has never been so grateful to hear that dreaded word because he's brimming with so much nervous eagerness that he almost wishes for the relief of cachinnation. Though nothing is particularly amusing, it takes the edge off long enough for Takao to curtail his fear.

“Maybe that was a bit too heady of a confession but I really do want to give you a massage. It certainly doesn't have to stop there, I mean. There are a lot of things that I'd like to—why does my mouth never know when to shut up?” He looks away from Midorima and runs a shaky hand through his hair.

Midorima tries not to smile and redirects his focus to the hem of his shirt. “I'm trusting you,” he warns, but there's no edge to it and Takao thinks it's meant to reassure him more than anything else.

“Then you're not as smart as I took you for,” Takao quips. He watches Midorima tug his shirt over his head and bites down on his bottom lip to trap any unwelcome noises from escaping his mouth. “I'd like if—you need to—” _for fuck's sake_ “—on your stomach. Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

Midorima shifts his limbs and lies down on his stomach as told, and Takao wonders if he too feels the same sudden wash of relief come over him. Takao might be young and stupid and impulsive, and _way_ too horny for his own good, but Midorima is still a teenage boy— _he can't be exempt from these feelings, right?_ Takao wonders. He climbs over Midorima and lowers himself down beside the other boy despite wanting to press his knees in against his hips and— _stop that thought right there, Kazunari_.

Takao shakes his head as if he can rid himself of the vivid image that fogs his brain. _That's no better than kneeling in front of him. What a conversation that would be. Don't look up Shin-chan 'cause you might poke your eye out with my way-too-enthusiastic boner. Yeah, no thanks._

Takao uncaps the bottle of oil, not wanting to draw this out into anything more awkward—he has enough of those occasions under his belt to last him a lifetime. He pours a liberal amount of oil into his hands and rubs them together, warming his skin. The oil smells fantastic and feels even better, and Takao only hopes that he at least _appears_ to know what he's doing when he puts his hands on Midorima's back.

It's not bad, at first; the oil glides along Midorima's skin, acting as a guide for Takao's thumbs, each one skittering whenever they pass over a deep knot. Each time a sore spot surfaces, makes itself known either by a catch of skin-to-skin contact or a moan from the boy beneath him, Takao localizes the source and presses down until he thinks the nerves have stopped firing. He gets fairly good at reading Midorima's half-baked sounds, knowing which moans indicate pain and which ones represent pleasure. It's all good and well until the position of Takao's body hinders his trajectory.

It's pretty fair to assume that Midorima has entered a semi-conscious state by the shift of his breathing but Takao gently prods his shoulder before speaking, not wanting to startle him.

“Can I...um...move?” Takao realizes how ambiguous the question is and makes a second attempt. “Can I straddle your thighs?”

“Mhm,” Midorima moans, and Takao can see the way his body melts a little into the futon.

Takao repositions himself carefully, distrusting that his body won't betray him. Once safely settled, he pours more oil into his palm and resumes. He smooths his palms over Midorima's shoulders, subconsciously counting the new ultraviolet-born freckles that stipple his skin. He thinks about kissing each one in turn, dragging his lips over the warm taste of sun-kissed flesh, his fingers moving to knead firmly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Takao pauses to curl his fingertips around the base of Midorima's neck, then gently works his lubricated digits along his lateral muscles, which are so taut that he's unsurprised by Midorima's groan.

“Tell me if anything's too painful, okay?” Takao says, moving his hands down from Midorima's deltoid and trapezius muscles to the bare expanse of his back. “I might love you hard but I don't want to hurt you.”

“I don't mind a little pain,” Midorima tells him, and it doesn't sound as far away as it should.

Takao swallows around the hard lump that forms in his throat and focuses on rocking his knuckles down either side of Midorima's spine. He tries to steady his breathing, the hiccup of his heartbeat, and the shiver of his pulse, but his body feels like it's going to malfunction. His nerves feel like live wires beneath his skin, sparking and crackling with electricity, carelessly reaching out for water despite future consequences.

He slides his hands, palms flat, down lean muscle and soft skin to the dip of the other's spine. He thinks he can feel Midorima's muscles flutter under his touch, similar to the kaleidoscope of butterflies that have taken residence in the cage of Takao's chest. He gently rakes his nails across the low of Midorima's back, then shifts his hands to mold his fingers around the slender bareness of his sides.

Midorima presses his face into the blanket dressing his futon and moans, his back arching just enough for Takao to notice the subtle shift.

“You're so sensitive, baby,” Takao remarks in a low voice.

Midorima shudders and turns his head, the pink mantling his visible cheek entering Takao's line of sight. “It feels good,” Midorima confesses, his blush deepening. “But I'm—it's a bit uncomfortable.”

“Oh, shit, I'm sorry,” Takao panics, his fingers settling along Midorima's intercostal muscles. “What do you need?”

“I need—I would like to move.”

Takao feels the air leave the room, and while he's terrified that he's done something wrong, his mind, ever so reliable, stabs him in the back. His eyes rove over Midorima's back, taking in every inch of his glistening skin: _like you're soaking wet,_ he thinks.

“Takao?” Midorima asks, his voice muffled by the material pressed against his cheek.

“Right, sorry!” Takao says, laughing uneasily. He practically throws himself sideways and crawls over to his own futon.

Midorima is slow to change positions but once he's finally upright, he throws his blanket over his legs and folds his hands in his lap. “That was...”

Takao steals a sidelong glance at him and chews on his lip, teeth dragging hard enough to tear through the delicate skin. “Was it bad?” he asks when he can no longer stomach the silence. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

Midorima shakes his head too quickly for it to be a natural response, and when Takao subjects him to scrutiny, he notes that he's far too tense for someone who's just received a massage.

There's an uncomfortably long moment of silence and Takao has to dig his nails into his thigh to endure it.

“I enjoy a good mud fight now and then but these particular muddy waters aren't doing it for me, Shin-chan. I really need to know what's going through your head right now because if you don't tell me, I think I might crawl out of my skin—and if that happens, you're going to have a lot more to worry about than someone else's germs.”

“I...I've never experienced this before,” Midorima says under his breath, fingers twisting together in a way that looks almost painful. He mumbles something incoherent, and the only thing that Takao can catch is _inescapable proof_ halfway through a disjointed mess of hollow bones and shattered glass.

Takao feels like he's stringing up a noose when he sidles recklessly down a coin slot in a castle of cards. “The back of the class can't hear you, baby.”

If Takao didn't know better, he'd have every reason to think that he'd just offended Midorima given the look on his face. He looks alarmed, rattled, bitten by serpent-tongued conspiracy. Midorima's mouth opens and closes several times, and Takao would laugh if all the air in the room didn't possess the power to crush him.

Finally, Midorima's features shift into an expression of hard-lined determination. The sharp angle of his jaw tightens, and Takao can picture the way his teeth are clenched together without a single gap between them. He reaches out to take Midorima's hand but what splits the silence momentarily paralyzes the action. “I have an erection.”

Takao's hand still hovers in the air and his mouth is agape, and he knows that he probably looks stupid, but it doesn't matter because he suddenly feels powerful. A thrill trips down the staircase of his spine like lightning that screams: _Holy shit! I did that!_ He feels emboldened with the knowledge that he's discovered something Midorima likes, that Midorima got hard _because_ of him.

He doesn't know what to expect next, which is disconcerting because as much as Midorima hides behind his undemonstrative nature and dyed-in-the-wool individualism, Takao can read him like a favorite book or well-rehearsed script. Even when Midorima moves close enough that Takao can make out every fleck of color in his eyes, he can't discern any vantage.

Whatever he thinks might happen is swept out through the narrow gap beneath the door because Midorima moves to kiss him again, and it's not just a chaste peck on the lips, it's deep and raw and over-exposed like a photo lost to summer weeds and left to burn up in the sun.

Takao feels dragged by the wind, taken by the stars that illuminate the darkness of his astonishment. He feels like a bolt of lightning speeding down a road to ruin, undone by the madness and the savage artfulness of adoration. And Midorima's hands— _those perfect fucking hands_ —surround his face to keep him from drawing away, and Takao wants to laugh at the concept because he'd happily live the rest of his life in this very moment.

He smiles against the silky bow of Midorima's mouth, and he knows that he's two seconds away from ruining the best kiss they've shared to date but he can't help it. The feelings currently spilling over his heart are drenching him in emotions so tangible he thinks he's been doused in gasoline. The friction between their bodies feels magnetic, electric, a bond shared between two nuclei. It's too much and not enough and Takao can feel himself coming unglued.

Takao cards his fingers through Midorima's hair and kisses him with the force of projectile impulse. He holds onto him so desperately that a weak sound breaks in the back of the taller boy's throat and trickles down Takao's spine. When he pulls away from the kiss he can't keep his balance and falls hard against his futon, an ache pulsing through his backside on contact.

Midorima looks startled and concerned, which doesn't cohere with the lust clouding his eyes or his swollen, wet, and kiss-bitten lips. His tongue becomes visible as he needlessly drags moisture across the seam of his mouth while he blinks himself into full awareness. “What's wrong?” He waits for Takao to respond but when the answer doesn't come immediately he gently mutters Takao's name.

Takao isn't sure if it's the affectionate way he speaks his name or the way that fondness drips from the heart he's wearing on his sleeve—that's just not something Midorima _does_ —that makes him squander every scratch of emotional restraint he has left. He bites down on his bottom lip to keep it from trembling but it's a futile attempt on account of the tears painting tracks down his cheeks.

Midorima looks horrified now. “Did I–”

But he can't seem to finish whatever it is that he wants to say and that does something to Takao's heart. He can't bear the thought of Midorima teetering on the edge of the falsely accused so he shakes his head, frantic in nature, and feels several wet droplets fall away from the line of his jaw.

“I know this is a really bad time but I just realized, like _really_ realized that we've been kissing and holding hands, and I just really fucking love you and I'm not sure how to handle the reality of all this. I know I'm crying and I probably look really gross right now but I'm just so fucking happy that you like me back.” Takao sniffs, then emits a hum of breathless laughter. “Too happy. Like, how the fuck am I so hard just from kissing? It's embarrassing.”

The laugh that shakes through the cracks in his veneer sounds too forced, but Takao is too comfortable in Midorima's presence to care. He inhales a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself and wipes away the ticklish tears that catch beneath his chin.

Midorima seems alleviated by Takao's words, if not a little frustrated, and huffs a breath of relief. “I thought that I'd done something to upset you.” His eyebrows knit together and his trademark crease of annoyance cuts across his forehead. He gives Takao a cuff on the ear then, and Takao would yelp for the surprise of it, but what follows beats back every feeling in his body and mind—Midorima wraps his arms around him and holds him in a close embrace.

Once Takao knows that he's not going to draw away, he wraps his arms around Midorima's middle and buries his face in his neck. He shamelessly inhales the familiar notes of Midorima's skin: fresh oranges, pine, cinnamon, and clove. Takao has always envied Midorima's ability to smell warm and inviting and _clean_. Perhaps he's just a bit biased, but he doesn't think so.

When the embrace ends, Midorima moves back to his futon. He appears flustered but his voice is steady when he asks: “Do you regret not going swimming?”

Takao smiles softly and shakes his head. “Nah. I meant what I said. We'll make a date of it some other time.” Takao rolls off of his futon and pushes it up against Midorima's. “It means a lot to me though,” he says after a beat. “That you were going to do it for me, I mean.” He shuffles forward on his knees until he can take Midorima's hand into his own. “I know how you feel about going against the rules and stuff.”

Midorima looks down at where Takao is playing with his fingers and nods stiffly. “I'm not—I don't know how to do a lot of this—” Midorima makes an aimless gesture with his free hand. “I think it's easier for most people to handle their emotions, but I'd like to learn how, for you.”

Takao feels his nose begin to burn and tears return to his eyes. “You're killing me here, Shin-chan,” he teases. A delicate laugh breaks past his lips and when he lifts his head to look at Midorima directly, his heart physically warms. “For the record, I don't need you to change anything for me. My love for you is too strong as it is. If I fall for you any harder, I might actually break something.”

“I don't think that's how it works,” Midorima says softly. He brings Takao's hand to his mouth and drags his lips over his knuckles in a sweeping kiss. “I'm glad you're here with me this time. It might seem selfish but it makes everything a little easier for me. At least I'm not the only one who stands out.”

“Don't think that I missed your insinuation. It's not _bad_ to stand out, you know. Trouble might be my middle name but at the end of the day, I'm not so untoward.” Takao smugly points his nose up toward the ceiling.

Midorima wraps himself up in his blanket from home and fluffs his pillow. “I can think of several names more befitting than _trouble_ to describe you.” He checks the placement of his futon, and when he guarantees that it's centered between the dark edges of the tatami mats spread out across the floor, he lies down. “Go to sleep, Takao. You're going to need your rest come tomorrow.”

“How am I supposed to sleep with—wait, are you not— _what did you do_?” Takao lilts accusingly.

Midorima furrows his brow and stares at Takao with an otherwise blank expression.

“I still have a boner! Did you just like _will_ yours away or something?”

Midorima's face turns beet red and Takao can't cage his laughter before it bursts from his chest. “Takao! Go to bed!”

“Suit yourself, Shin-chan.” Takao sandwiches himself between the layers of his futon and comforter, imagining how terrifying he must look as he stares up at the ceiling with a permanent smile fixed on his face. And while an uncomfortable pressure in the space between his legs remains despite the passing minutes, he can only acknowledge the comforts of happiness and contentment—so strong that he feels as if he's still in Midorima's warm embrace.

“Shin-chan?” Takao asks, face still turned up toward the ceiling.

“Mm?” Midorima hums sleepily.

“Take off your glasses.”

Takao listens to the shift of fabric followed by the delicate sound of hard plastic coming together.

“Takao?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing, baby,” Takao answers and closes his eyes, feeling like a dog with two tails.

_For everything that's changed_ , Takao thinks, _some things will forever stay the same_.


	22. Cake and Peonies

The school year drags on like the slow scratch of a name carved into a crooked heart. Training is businesslike and inexorable like the noon sun is relentless, the team now more bound and determined than ever—and between grueling classwork and club tasks, Takao spends most days feeling dead on his feet. If not for Midorima's persistence, he would have gladly forgone his homework in favor of basketball practice because it seemed impossible to juggle everything at once.

If not for the sun and the sky and the moon and the stars, Takao doesn't think himself capable of telling the days apart. His ambition remains limitless but where he thought he would forever have expendable energy, he's wearing thin. There is one thing, however, to which this doesn't apply, and Takao has a superfluous spirit that seems to reignite whenever the glowing embers beneath the surface of his skin have fizzled out, and that's spending time with Midorima. Whether it's bickering or holding his hand or kissing— _especially kissing_ —Takao's vigor burns bright like the aching coals in his chest have come to life.

This is why he can't wait for winter break because time away from school means more time spent with the boy he loves.

But first, is Takao's birthday.

The day is sunny and cool but not unpleasant. It's dry and the sky is a brilliant blue with minimal cloud coverage. The many maple trees surrounding the school have already turned scarlet and the leaves that litter the ground crunch satisfyingly beneath Takao's feet. Midorima had insisted that Takao meet him at school instead of at his house, which was so unusual that it took him nearly all of five minutes to accept the other boy's inarguable decision.

Not knowing what to do with himself, Takao left for school early. He set off on a light jog through the winding streets that slice through this part of Tokyo like a crosshatch of secret pathways. The air is crisp and sweet and it feels nice on Takao's skin. He checks his watch and finds that he has time to spare but if he knows Midorima as well as he likes to think he does, he's sure that he's already at school. And while he doesn't feel particularly anxious, he finds that the thought calms him down.

Takao arrives with time still on his hands but as expected, he spots Midorima sitting on a bench just beyond the outer perimeter of Shūtoku High's steel gates. _Being punctual does not mean to be too early, but to be just early enough, Takao._ He grins because the voice inside of his head sounds so much like Midorima that he could easily pretend he was speaking into his ear if he wasn't watching him at a distance.

When he feels like he's sufficiently stalked Midorima for long enough, he jogs over to the bench where he's sitting in the company of an alarmingly large Daruma doll. “Please tell me that that's your lucky item because as much as I appreciate the sentiment, those things really freak me out.”

Midorima doesn't look up from the book he's reading but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yes, Takao, it's my lucky item.”

Takao exhales an exaggerated sigh and bends over to look the doll in the eye. “Are you gonna make a wish and fill in the other eye?”

Midorima closes his book and shakes his head. “This wasn't mine to start. I picked it up at that thrift store you like to go to on weekends, so I don't think it would work. It seems like someone already made a wish, so either they broke their promise or their wish was never fulfilled.”

Takao shifts his gaze between the darkened (open) right eye and the blank (closed) left eye of the doll. “I always feel like these things are watching me whether they have their eyes filled in or not. My mom used to keep one in the kitchen but I would cry every time I saw it so she gave it away.” Takao laughs. “I was only three then, though, not the man I am today!”

“You're not a man yet, Takao. Not by legal standards or otherwise.”

“Have you ever considered not taking me down a peg when I'm clearly grasping at optimism?” Takao sits next to the doll and eyes it as if his hard gaze is capable of imparting a warning on the inanimate object. Midorima opens his mouth to respond but Takao holds up his hand. “Since that question was _obviously_ rhetorical, why don't you let me see what you _did_ get me for my birthday?”

“It's rude to assume that I got you anything,” Midorima tells him, stuffing his book into his bag.

Takao crosses his arms over his chest and huffs an indignant breath. “You always get me something, Shin-chan. I'm hardly being rude. I'm being _percipient_.”

Midorima looks at him for a long moment, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Takao, you're needlessly complicated and sometimes I wonder why I haven't traded you for someone less problematic.” Midorima checks his watch and pushes himself into standing.

“I'll give you an answer to that if you promise to spend the night at my house tonight.” Takao bites at the edge of a fingernail as he waits for Midorima's response.

“Stop that. Do you know how many germs you're feasting on right now?” Midorima tugs Takao's hand away from his mouth. “I was already planning on staying over. I don't need to hear whatever demented interpretation you've come up with to sway me. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you kept your weird rationale to yourself.”

“Suit yourself, baby. If you don't want to face the music, then so be it, but you're gonna have to come to grips with the fact that you love me at some point or another,” Takao teases.

Midorima's cheeks flush but he offers up no response other than a terse: “Let's get going.”

Takao springs off of the bench and waits for Midorima to collect his wishing doll before he starts in the direction of the school. After a brief moment of comfortable silence, Takao steals a sideways glance in Midorima's direction. “You did get me a present, right? 'Cause I didn't jog all the way to school for nothing.”

“It won't hurt you to modify your mode of travel now and then,” Midorima tells him, followed by a short pause. Then: “Yes, Takao. I got you a present. I'll give it to you later.” He whispers a quiet _nanodayo_ that catches on the light breeze but Takao hears it nonetheless.

“You know, you're always going on about how I have a few screws loose but you're the one who's always talking to himself. I think that makes you a hypocrite, Shin-chan. I guess it's a good thing we have each other.” Takao stretches and shifts the straps digging into his shoulders.

“Takao?”

“Love of my life?”

Whatever Midorima was going to say is replaced by nothing more than the sharp resonance of Takao's name, and Takao can't help but laugh as it drives several birds out of a nearby tree.

It's hard enough to focus on a normal day, so with the prospect of spending the evening with Midorima, Takao is nearly crawling out of his skin by the time their fourth hour rolls around. Takao gets reprimanded at least once each course but in his defense, he's trying, he _really_ is. He just can't help the way his knee bounces uncontrollably beneath his desk or the way he twirls his pencil between his fingers. He doesn't notice how often he's checking the clock on the wall or the watch on his wrist, and he most definitely doesn't mean to shout the answer to number nine when the teacher calls on him. He's just teeming with more energy than he knows what to do with. What's more, is that he can't stop stealing glimpses at a certain green-haired, green-eyed boy who is sitting across the room from him.

When it's finally time for lunch, Takao all but bolts from his desk to Midorima's. “Do you want to have lunch on the roof today?”

Midorima continues to jot down several notes before he finally acknowledges Takao's presence. He straightens his papers and puts his pencil away, then glances up at Takao over the dark edge of his glasses. “You know that we're not supposed–”

“I know,” Takao lilts, almost a whine. “But it's my _birthday_ and if I have to stay holed up in this stuffy room any longer I think I might implode or spontaneously combust or whatever just... Please?” he begs.

Midorima closes his eyes and sighs as if Takao's just asked him to skip the rest of the day entirely. “Yes, Takao, we can eat on the roof. But if we get in trouble, you're taking all the blame.”

“Sure thing, Shin-chan. You know that I'd give my right arm for you. Now let's go, I'm starving!” Takao curls his fingers around Midorima's wrist and tries to ignore the way his pulse feels beneath his touch.

Midorima slips out of his seat, and when it becomes apparent that he's not going to match Takao's pace, the shorter boy cuts his clip in half. “You know, by the time we reach the roof, lunch is going to be over if you don't pick it up, gramps.”

“Takao, enough!” Midorima scolds but there's no real heat in his tone. “We'll have plenty of time to enjoy lunch without acting like a couple of starved animals. You need to have respect for your fellow schoolmates.”

“I'll have you know that I _am_ a starving animal, and if I don't get to tear into this bag of birthday treats soon, I just might drop dead from malnutrition.”

“You already suffer from poor nutrition. If you continue to eat the way you do, you'll have greater things to worry about than dying of starvation. It's a miracle you don't have diabetes and an even bigger miracle that you still have all of your teeth.”

“What can I say? I have good genes. I love my body and my body loves me.” Takao takes the stairs to the roof two at a time. “I'll worry about heart disease and diabetes when I start to get fat.” He pushes open the door to the roof. “Although, by that time, I probably won't care and you'll have to learn to love my dad-bod.”

Midorima follows Takao out into the sun, a wrinkle between his brows that clearly states he has no idea what Takao is referring to. He brushes over it and walks over to a thick concrete slab that demarcates the edge of the roof and a chain-link fence that has yet to lose its shine. “For as long as you're in my company, you'll take care of yourself,” Midorima chastises. “I won't have you throwing your health away on my watch.”

Takao plops down on the unyielding surface—he sincerely wishes he'd stop doing that—and paws through his plastic bag of various snacks. “Are you genuinely concerned about my health or are you worried about me making you look bad? Because I have to say, Shin-chan, one of those things is a lot more offensive than the other. Besides, if you become Sawbones Shintarō, you'll be tapping away at brains, so if I get round it won't affect you. It won't be like if you were a nutritionist or something...” Takao trails off when he finds what he's looking for, and when he looks at Midorima, the other boy is staring at him.

“What?” Takao asks, handing Midorima the fish-shaped cake. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Midorima's fingers brush over Takao's own as he accepts the dessert without pause. “It's nothing,” Midorima tells him.

“No one's buying that, Shin-chan, most of all, not me, and not just because I'm the only one here. You have _something_ face. You're such a sucker for azuki beans,” he strays briefly, smiling fondly. “As a matter of fact, you were kind of looking at me the way you look at cans of red bean soup.” Takao furrows his brow and chews on the inside of his cheek. “Does this mean that you're thinking about eating me? Or that you like me the same way you like red bean soup? Because that's actually pretty flattering.”

“Shut up, Takao.” Midorima sets aside his _taiyaki_ and starts to unpack his lunch. “I just can't imagine...” Midorima's cheeks turn pink and Takao knows that it has nothing to do with the cool air.

Takao tears off the wrapper of his own _taiyaki_ and takes a savage bite out of the fish's head. Several crumbs fall into his lap and he leisurely dusts them off of his pants. “Well, whatever it is, Shin-chan, you have me in your corner.”

“I just liked the way my name sounded on...” –Midorima's flush deepens– “I like the way you say it.”

Takao can feel a portrait of confusion paint itself across his face. “I say your name all the time. Usually, you tell me to stop calling you... _ohh_ , is this one of those things that you pretend you don't like but you actually do?”

Midorima stills with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “I don't do that.”

Takao gasps and bumps his shoulder against Midorima's. “Next you're going to tell me you don't lie either. Honestly, Shin-chan.”

Midorima chews thoughtfully, his brows knitted together, and the crease that Takao always longs to smooth out lines his forehead. When he finally swallows, he dabs at the corner of his mouth with a floral napkin and frowns. “Do I really do that? Is that why people refer to me as having a tsundere personality?”

Takao thinks that he must be joking at first but the confusion delineating his face is so genuine that Takao wants to kiss the taste of rice right off his lips. “Every time I think you can't get any cuter, you surprise me.” He licks the red bean paste off of his bottom lip and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can't speak for other people but you are, um...” Takao rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Capricious? Temperamental? Shit, I don't know, Shin-chan. You're you and you can change on a dime but that's what I like about you. I like that you run hot and cold and you always keep me guessing.” Takao feels heat creep along the contours of his cheeks. “But I like that you're different with me, too.”

Midorima takes another bite of lunch and when he— _uncharacteristically_ —fails to notice the grain of rice sticking to the center of his mouth, Takao quite literally, kisses the rice right off his lips. Midorima emits a strangled noise of consternation but to Takao's surprise, he doesn't push him away. Instead, he returns the kiss with all of the slow passion of a lazy Sunday afternoon. When they finally pull apart, Midorima lets Takao lace their fingers together while they eat the rest of their lunch between comfortable silence and scattered conversation.

When lunch ends, they pack up their belongings and Midorima gently curls his hand around Takao's forearm. “I don't hate it when you call me Shin-chan, but I like it when you call me Shintarō, too.”

The confession is light and airy on Midorima's lips but Takao can see how much courage it's taken him to speak it. It makes his heart swell and his stomach churn pleasantly. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between them to slide a hand through Midorima's hair. “I'll have to keep that in mind then, won't I, Shintarō?”

Midorima's complexion darkens and something expressive flickers across his gaze as he bows his head to hide his undue embarrassment. Takao presses his thumb to the center of Midorima's bottom lip and smiles. “I know that I'm full of piss and vinegar most of the time, so it might seem like I don't pay attention to my surroundings, but I swear that there's nothing you could say to me that would warrant discomfort or change my opinion about you.” Takao pushes himself up on the flex points of his sneakers and plants a chaste kiss on Midorima's mouth. “I pay an unhealthy amount of attention to you and you've never—you're always perfect to me.”

Midorima tugs Takao's hand free of his hair and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you, Takao. Now if I catch you staring at me as much as you did this morning, you're not getting your birthday present.”

Takao complains the entire way back into the school, sprinkling a few explanations here and there to justify his staring and inattention, all of which mostly add up to the same thing. And by the time the school day ends and basketball practice begins, Takao is almost positive that he's been caught staring at Midorima twice as much as he was during the earlier part of the day. He curses his character each time he catches himself doing it, but he has this innate habit of fixating on the very thing he's been told _not_ to focus on.

On the way to the gym, he worries that Midorima might make good on his threat. However, notwithstanding his opposition, Takao finds a fresh bouquet of lush red peonies waiting for him outside of his gym locker. There's a card with a neat inscription on it that expounds exactly why Midorima chose this gift without the Shūtoku ace having to give the reason himself. The flowers are meant to represent his zodiac sign, with their opulent shape and bold, passionate color, red peonies embody both a sense of romance and power. These particular flowers are also seen as an omen of good fortune and prosperity. Each trait and description is a representation of the Scorpio's deep sensitivity, immense willpower, and fierce potential.

“Did you know that Scorpios are more apt to become geniuses than those born under any other astrological sign?” Midorima asks him, his voice low and closer to Takao's ear than he expects it to be.

“I didn't, but if this is your way of suggesting that I still have a shot at becoming a Miracle, I hate to break it to you but I don't think it's gonna happen.” Takao turns to face Midorima directly and smiles. “Thank you, Shin-chan. I love them.”

Midorima nods soundly then immediately goes back to changing into his gym clothes.

And because Takao is the worst person on the entire planet whose mouth never knows when to stop working, he has to go and ruin the moment. “I think the real present here is that I get to see your nipples.”

Midorima's face turns a darker red than the headband lying on the top shelf of Takao's locker. The tips of his ears turn pink and the smooth column of his throat looks as if he's broken out in a splotchy rash. “Akashingō,” he hisses as he pulls his shirt over his head, knocking his glasses askew for the swiftness of the motion.

Takao giggles and rights the black frames on Midorima's face. “Come on, Shin-chan. It's my birthday. Let me have today to pick on you.”

“You bully me all the time, Takao. You're a constant thorn in my side. Don't fool yourself into thinking that today is any different.”

Something dark flashes through Takao, makes him want to dress Midorima up in bruises and cover him in bite marks. He wants to paint him in shades of purple and black and blue in all the places he can't hide. Though it isn't because he's angry or upset, he doesn't want to _hurt_ Midorima, but he wants to claim him, to brand him with the shape of his lips and the sound of his name.

“Get a room you two. Let's go!” Miyaji says as he walks past them and toward the locker room exit. “If you're not out of here in sixty seconds, you'll be running twice as many laps as usual.”

“But it's my birthday!” Takao protests loudly. “And we weren't even doing anything!”

“I don't care if it's your last day on earth, small fry. Get a move on!” Miyaji retorts before the door swings shut behind him.

“Oh, he's just the worst sort of person,” Takao grumbles, hastily tying his shoelaces.

“He's also most likely to trick you into thinking he's left the room when he's actually waiting to hear if you say anything bad about him,” Ōtsubo needles and ruffles Takao's hair. “He's strict but his heart is in the right place. He just wants what's best for the team. He's a hard worker. You could learn a few things from him.” His eyes flicker over to Midorima. “You too.”

“Man, if I knew our senpais were gonna be this strict, I'd have asked my parents to lead the team,” Takao says jokingly.

“That's an ineffective comparison. Your parents aren't strict,” Midorima supplies with an air of casual indifference.

“The point is, _Shin-chan_ , that I'm constantly under authority's thumb. I don't need two sets of parents.”

Midorima ignores Takao and sprays his locker down with a bottle of odor and germ eliminator, spraying Takao once in the chest for good measure.

“I'm not a germ, and I don't stink!” Takao says as he tries to hold in a cough. “That stuff reeks! It smells like my grandma's bathroom.” He waves a hand in front of his face for show.

“If it takes smelling like your grandmother's bathroom to decontaminate my locker, I'll consider it a small price to pay. Do you know how many germs live on metal surfaces, Takao? Keeping our lockers shut doesn't make them exempt from bacteria. Locker rooms are a cesspool of filth, full of microbes and pathogens and bacterium. Not to mention the viruses!”

“No offense, baby, but if your ranting about little organisms I can't even _see_ without a microscope makes for double the work today, I'm dunking your head in the toilet.”

Midorima knows better than to believe that Takao would carry out his threat, but his face still turns a pale shade of gray and Takao has to smack him on the ass to get him moving. “Get cracking, cowboy! We're burnin' daylight!”

“I regret every nice thing I've ever done for you.”

Takao's laughter echoes off the walls as he hurries out into the gym, Midorima on his heels.

It turns out that they do run over their time limit but Miyaji, being the _somewhat_ merciful devil that he is, only slightly increases their workload—which Takao thinks he would have done no matter what because that's just the type of person Miyaji is. They're doing well so far, climbing closer to the Winter Cup with every match but the team is still on edge—especially since Kagami seems to have found new ground to stand on, and Kuroko isn't ever too far behind. Midorima, however, seems more focused than ever, and while he looks all-business on the outside, Takao knows that he's teeming with excitement on the inside.

It's something Takao wants to see more of, a spark he wants to keep alive because Midorima deserves to be happy. Moreover, there's always the added benefit of Midorima's happiness spilling over into Takao's outstretched hands, and that has yet to be anything other than beneficial, to say the least.

And Takao knows for certain that tonight won't be any different because when Midorima steals a moment to flash him a warm smile, it's in the name of a promise. 


	23. In The Swim

It's finally winter break, and while the Winter Cup has come and gone, not all things are grim.

Takao refuses to believe that their hard work was for nothing despite the fact that they didn't place first in the tournament. Shūtoku still managed to secure third place and Takao knows that it's nothing to scoff at, especially when taking into consideration the incredible turnout this year. He's proud of their success, and while no one can take that away from him, he still strongly believes that had they lost to Kaijō instead of Rakuzan, the loss would have been a little easier to swallow.

Still, regardless of the heartache and the tears that spilled like summer rain that fateful night, the team stands strong and has vowed to work even harder toward their crowning achievement next year. Takao, for one, thinks they have a good fighting chance—he's never been this thirsty for revenge.

Furthermore, Takao knows that he doesn't have time to dwell on the what-ifs or the could-have-beens because there's a party at the camping grounds near Kimura's house tonight to see the Shūtoku seniors off, and he has yet to convince Midorima to go with him.

Takao glances at the other boy, who's currently sprawled out on Takao's bed with a book of piano classics. Takao is sitting on an old zabuton on the floor, his video game on pause as he mulls over a variety of tactics to change Midorima's mind. He stares at the peonies that hang upside down on his wall, now a deep red-brown and dried to a crisp. Midorima had complained about them at first, citing them as bad luck but Takao refused to take them down until he felt they no longer held any energy. It was a bullshit excuse to hold onto the flowers that meant so much to him, but Midorima didn't need to know that.

“I'm not going, Takao,” Midorima says, his face still buried in his book.

“I didn't even say anything!” Takao blurts and drags his gaze away from the wall.

“You don't have to. I know that you're thinking about it.”

Takao sets down his controller and turns to face the bed. “But it's _important_. It's a matter of respect.”

Midorima harrumphs and shakes his head. “I've paid my respects. I don't need to go to a party to formally express my gratitude and well wishes.”

“But why _not_?” Takao huffs, so close to pouting that he doesn't know whether he should be embarrassed by his behavior.

Midorima exhales a weighty sigh and lowers his book. “Parties are loud and obnoxious and we could get in serious trouble if we're caught. I have no interest in being questioned by the police. I have a clean record and I intend to keep it that way.”

Takao stares at Midorima for a long moment, then laughs. “What the hell, Shin-chan. It's not like we're going over to Kagami's place for an all-American bash. It's just a few people getting together to roast marshmallows, drink hot chocolate, and talk. We're just going to hang out. Curfew doesn't start until 11:00 p.m. I'll make sure to have your pretty little head home before then, so _please_ come with me.”

Midorima rubs at his eyebrow and Takao thinks that now is his only chance to win him over. He shuffles over to the side of his bed on his knees and rests his chin on the muscled warmth of Midorima's thigh. “I promise that we can leave if you hate it.”

“I will hate it,” Midorima corrects him, his lips pursed and eyes downcast on Takao like a disapproving parent. “Fine. But we're not staying long, and if I detect even a _hint_ of alcohol, we're leaving, no questions asked.”

Takao springs to his feet and throws his arms around Midorima's shoulders. “You're the best, Shin-chan!”

“I know,” Midorima says flatly, not returning Takao's enthusiastic hug. “What time do we need to leave?”

“Miyaji said we should be there around seven o'clock if we want to procure any of the good stuff.” Midorima's eyebrows disappear into his hair and a loud guffaw shakes out of Takao's chest. “Food, Shin-chan. Not drugs. What would our teammates think if they knew you thought so little of them?”

“It's not _our_ team I'm worried about,” Midorima affirms.

“You're overthinking this too much. It's just a little gathering between friends. What could go wrong?” Takao slips away from his bed and walks over to his closet. He tugs the door open and immediately covers his head should any errant sports balls come tumbling down.

“Takao! That looks worse than it did before I told you to clean it!” Midorima scolds sharply.

“What can I say? I'm a lost cause,” Takao says, shrugging. After some searching, he manages to unearth his favorite pair of blue jeans and a baggy white sweater. He hastily strips down to his boxers and kicks his newly abandoned clothing under the corner of his bed as he tugs on his jeans and slips into the sweater he'd all but forgotten about.

“All right, I'm ready to go! What do you want to do until it's time to leave?” Takao checks his watch. “We still have a couple of hours.”

“That seems like just the right amount of time for you to get your closet in order. I'm going to finish this book.” Midorima picks up the paperback then and Takao frowns.

“If I wanted to do just anything, I'd go back to playing Street Fighter. I was hoping that maybe we could–”

“Finish that sentence and you're leaving here alone.”

Takao huffs a breath of disgust and makes his way back over to his closet. “I don't see how that's fair when you're on _my_ bed looking like Ueda Daisuke. Do you even know what those pants do to me?”

Midorima's face slackens and a pair of lines form between his eyebrows. “I have no frame of reference for that context.”

“Kise would be so disappointed in you right now,” Takao says, eyeing his closet like it holds the plague within the heart of all its clutter.

Midorima only hums a response, and when Takao finally gives up on tackling the task of organizing his closet, he returns to his spot on the floor. He's seconds into his game when Midorima speaks up. “What exactly do my pants have to do with anything?”

Takao's attention span, or lack thereof, wins out and he turns off his game console and television in tandem. “They just look good on you. Really good. Like maybe you should model them for me.”

Midorima scoffs at the seemingly ridiculous idea. “I'm sorry I asked.”

Takao ignores Midorima's exasperation and moves over to his bed for the second time. “It's not just your pants. It's everything. It's that shade of blue against your perfect fucking skin, the way it complements your eyes and your hair.” Takao climbs onto the bed and swings one leg over Midorima's hips to straddle his lap. He curls his fingers in against the soft weave of Midorima's sweater. “It's the way things fit you, the way they cling to your body just enough that I can clearly imagine what lies beneath, but not so much as to give everything away.” Takao slides his hands up over Midorima's shoulders and cards his fingers through his hair.

“All I did was get dressed, Takao. You're acting like I made the cover of a magazine.”

“And you do it really fucking well.” Takao presses a kiss to Midorima's forehead, lets it linger just long enough to feel the heat of Midorima's skin against his lips. “You _could_ be a model, too, if it's what you wanted. Fucking hell,” Takao laughs, “learn to take a compliment, Shin-chan.

Midorima presses his lips together and Takao delights in how flustered he looks. “How can someone as beautiful as you not _see_ it?” Takao removes Midorima's glasses and tries not to laugh at how the dig of his mouth tugs into a frown and his eyes momentarily shift out of focus. “I don't think these are helping you all that much, baby,” Takao teases. He sets Midorima's glasses on the table beside his bed, then kisses the furrow between his brows. “You're perfect, Shin-chan.” He drags his lips down the length of Midorima's nose, then kisses its slightly pointed tip. “You're so fucking beautiful that it pains me.” He sweeps his tongue out across the taller boy's lips and drapes his arms around his neck.

“I don't understand what you see in me, Takao,” Midorima confesses, exposed and defenseless. He gently rests his hands on either side of Takao's waist and looks up into his eyes, something so raw and sentient beneath his unguarded gaze that it strips Takao to the bone. “But I do believe you if that means anything,” he adds softly.

Takao's smile is so wide on his lips that he briefly wonders if an expression is capable of splitting one's face. But if he's learned anything during his time with Midorima, it's that there's no cure for happiness. So he utilizes the titillating warmth that spreads through his chest in the shape of joy and kisses Midorima hard on the lips.

It feels like magic and it tastes like rapture but it doesn't last nearly as long as Takao had hoped it would because his sister is pushing her way into his room, and Takao throws himself off of Midorima's lap with so much force that he falls onto the floor.

After ten satisfying minutes spent tickling his little sister and putting her into (very escapable) headlocks, Takao concedes to the reason she barged into his room in the first place. He swaps out Street Fighter II for Kirby's Return to Dream Land and spends the next hour helping his sister through the action-platformer while pretending that she's doing all the work. Much to Takao's surprise, Midorima joins them, and despite the game allowing up to four players, Takao surrenders his cushion to Midorima so he can massage the tension out of his ace's shoulders.

Several close-shaves and one death later, Midorima seems to forget that he's playing a game and takes each level as a personal challenge. He's not bad, especially not for a first-timer, but Takao is better and he can't pass up this opportunity to gloat. It's not much, what with Midorima having more practical and lucrative life skills, but it feels nice to have this on him all the same.

Takao's sister eventually gets bored, and Takao worries that she's taking after him in terms of inattention and easy distraction. She gets up in the middle of a level and waddles over to Takao's door, muttering something about Midorima needing to get his head in the game. It sends Takao into a fit of giggles that has him folded over at the waist and a stitch forming in his side.

When the tears have cleared from his vision, he catches Midorima glaring at him. He knows that it's meant to be intimidating, but Takao just thinks that he looks like a grumpy kitten.

“I'm going to use the washroom before we leave. If you're not fully dressed and ready to go by the time I'm finished, I'll leave without you.”

“You didn't want to go in the first place!” Takao argues as he turns off the electronics once more and clambers after Midorima.

“I still don't, but I _do_ have a home I can go to.”

Takao clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You're not getting rid of me that easily, Shin-chan.”

“Just be ready, idiot,” Midorima says fondly, brushing his fingers over the top of Takao's head.

“I've been ready since the day I was born!” Takao smirks.

Takao hears Midorima mumble something indistinct as he closes the bathroom door behind him with a solid click.

Though, it turns out that nothing could have readied him for whatever the universal life force that controls predestination had in mind for the night.

Takao thinks that he should have been better prepared for this because as fate would have it, word of their get-together slipped through the cracks, and in short order, a friend of a friend of a friend was making their way into the horde of students gathered around a large campfire until the crowd was so big that Takao entirely lost sight of Midorima after speaking to Kimura about his favorite pro wrestling team for all of five minutes.

It takes Takao over twenty minutes to spot Midorima over the many heads crowding the south end of the park—which is truly astonishing since he normally sticks out like an emerald in a sea of onyx and gold. Takao gets waylaid several times on his way over to the edge of the park, and while he never thought himself popular before, he's starting to wonder when he unknowingly made so many friends. When he's finally able to break free, he rushes over to near where Midorima is standing, still donning Takao's favorite spruce-colored peacoat. However, he skids to a halt when he realizes that he's not alone.

Midorima is leaning up against a scraggly yew tree, a cheap plastic cup in his hand and a deep flush contouring his cheekbones. His mouth is moving, and Takao can see that he's speaking to a pretty girl who appears to be soaking up the attention like a sponge. Takao tries to make himself believe that he's reading too much into it, that he's just being irrational. It's not as if he _owns_ Midorima, it's perfectly natural for him to speak with other people, to have friends and acquaintances outside of himself. And while he knows this is true, he finds the veracity hard to swallow.

Takao has never wanted to experience what it's like to drink so badly in his life. He looks down at the contents of his own cup and frowns. He could have capitulated, taken up Miyaji's proposition to live a little when he shoved a cup of spiked fruit juice and sparkling water into his hand, but he'd dumped the contents out into a bush when no one was looking. He'd refilled his cup with water from a drinking fountain on the east side of the park, and when he returned to Miyaji and his group of friends, they were none the wiser. He had done it out of respect to Midorima, but now he wants to drown himself in alcohol until he can no longer feel the fear and the jealousy and the anguish gnawing through the low of his belly like a lovesick parasite.

Takao watches Midorima interact with the girl he's not entirely certain goes to Shūtoku for a moment longer. His eyes burn under the mantle of the cool evening air, but he can't bring himself to blink, too afraid that he'll miss something of great significance. He watches the girl he can't name lean forward and touch Midorima's arm, then his shoulder, and Takao's chest constricts at each point of contact. Midorima is smiling and sipping his beverage idly, but he looks uncomfortable—at least, from Takao's perspective, and he prays that he's not imagining it because it's the only thing keeping him from losing his mind. He feels like he's swimming through a sea of glass, the salt burning his wounds, and the only thing he can do to save himself is to throw caution to the wind and dive a little deeper.

“There you are, Shin-Chan!” Takao shouts, too loudly.

Midorima looks momentarily surprised but when his gaze falls on Takao's face he appears relieved. Takao's heart is hammering loudly in his chest, so much so that it alters the rate of his breathing; he wonders if this is what it feels like before succumbing to the arresting weight of a heart attack.

Takao fits himself against Midorima's side and nudges him in the ribs. “You should have told me where you were going. I was looking all over for you.”

He doesn't give Midorima time to respond before he looks at the girl who had been speaking to Midorima moments ago and smiles crookedly. “Hey there, cutie. I haven't seen you around here before. What school do you go to?” He lifts the cup in his too-tight grip to his lips and takes a long drink of the over-purified water.

She opens her mouth to issue an answer, but Takao doesn't want to hear anything she has to say; frankly, he despises her. The rational part of him knows that it's unfair, he knows nothing about her, after all. She could be a nice girl and they could get along fantastically, but the illogical part of him doesn't want any trace of her within fifty-feet of him or Midorima.

“Oh, Shin-chan! I forgot! Ōtsubo-san wanted to talk to you about our new captain!” It's a lie, but Takao knows that it'll be enough to redirect every fragment of Midorima's attention away from the current scene.

Takao looks at the unidentified girl and smiles sweetly at her. “Sorry, but we gotta scram. It's never a good idea to leave our senpais waiting.” He hooks his arm around Midorima's and pulls him away from the tree. Seconds later, with that taken care of, Takao smiles triumphantly to himself.

“So, Shin-chan, what was that all about?” There's something dark and cautious in Takao's tone but Midorima doesn't seem to notice because he's staring up at the cloudless night like the stars are speaking to him.

“You didn't have to lie, Takao.”

Takao furrows his brow and removes himself from Midorima's arm. “You knew?”

Midorima nods once, eyes still pinned to the starlit ceiling. “I don't have to read between the lines to know what you're thinking or how you're feeling.”

Takao hangs his head and tries to parse through what he _is_ feeling. On one hand, there's satisfaction, while scratched out across his opposite palm is something equivalent to guilt.

“I'm not going to complain. You know that I'm not interested in talking to people I'm unfamiliar with, but I do disapprove of how you handled the situation.”

Takao lifts his head just enough to glance at Midorima out of his periphery. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then cuts directly into Midorima's trajectory. “Look, I get it. I know why you object or oppose or whatever it is that you're doing but it's just...” Takao exhales an extraneous breath. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself and while I should have been happy for you, I got jealous. You were smiling and your cheeks were flushed and I couldn't—I can't stand the thought of you sharing the kinds of things that I've named my own with anyone else. It's stupid and it's unfair and I know that I'm being selfish in a crazy kind of way but I just...really like you. And I know you know that—I know that I tell you all the time, probably too much if I'm being honest.” There's a brief pause, then: “Oh no, oh shit, I'm totally that guy. I'm totally that deranged, neurotic, self-serving, possessive boyfriend that makes newspaper headlines.” Takao runs a hand through his hair and exhales a visible breath.

Midorima stares at him for so long that Takao feels himself rapidly coming apart at the seams. The silence that grows between them destroys every stitch of sensibility Takao has left, leaves him at the crossroads of panic and hysteria. He thinks that he's just taken the denotative bottle that he's stuffed with so much of their history and smashed it into pieces. He's taken years and years of memories, good and bad, and jettisoned the precious cargo like contraband.

“Shin-chan, baby, please say something. I think I'm going to literally go insane if you keep looking at me like that.” But he gives Midorima no time to interject before he starts rambling again. “Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so jealous. I'm a confident person but for some reason, when it comes to you, I'm really insecure, and I'm just afraid that you're going to find someone else or realize that you like girls, or fuck, you don't even _know_ if you're gay, but maybe you'll decide that you want to try dating other people and...” Takao trails off and bends at the waist, his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath.

“You said boyfriend,” Midorima says, at last. His voice sounds distant and far away, but somehow, despite all the cacophonous laughter and chatter in the background, Takao hears him as clearly as if he were speaking directly into his ear.

“What?” Takao lifts his head just enough to glimpse at Midorima. “You're going to have to elaborate. I tend to say a lot of things when I'm nervous. I was born to rock but once I get on a roll, I can't stop, you know?” Takao laughs, a nervous kind of laughter that shakes apart in his throat. “Shit. I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about.”

“You said you were my boyfriend.”

“Would you rather I put on a dress and some lipstick and called myself your girlfriend? I don't know how convincing I'll be as a woman, but if it means having you all to myself, I'd give it a shot.”

“You said...” Midorima pauses and his cheeks blossom like cherries in the spring. “You mentioned dating other people. How...how long were you going to leave me in the dark?”

Takao rights himself, wincing when his facet joints move and produce an audible pop. “Wait. Are you implying that you didn't _know_ that I considered myself your boyfriend and you mine? 'Cause I have to say, that would mean you owe me a big fat apology for calling me an idiot all the time.”

Midorima shakes his head, then doesn't stop shaking it as he says: “I had no idea. It was kind of easy to miss since you never _said_.”

“Said what?” Takao exclaims. “I thought it was pretty obvious with the kissing and hand-holding and my very _overt_ declarations of love for you. How did you _not_ know? This has to be a joke. Right? Tell me that you're joking.”

“I had no idea. You never said that we were dating. No, I couldn't have known. You never asked me out.” It sounds as though Midorima is trying to convince himself now, and Takao knows that he's not wrong about this.

“Come on, Shin-chan! How are you worse at this than I am? You're supposed to be the rational, put-together one. I've been in love with you since like forever. You basically declared your love for me after we made out at camp. I guess that part's a bit exaggerated but that's what it felt like at the time, and it might as well have been considering that you went from thinking yourself a dud in the relationship department to pitching a tent after making out with me.”

“I did not think myself a dud, Takao,” Midorima warns.

“That is _not_ what we need to be focusing on right now!” Takao throws his arms up toward the glittering night sky for effect. “Oh no, does this mean that you've been cheating on me—since you didn't know that we were dating? _Are_ we dating? I feel like my entire life has done a 180 and I have no idea what's going on anymore.”

Takao swallows down the water in his cup with a single gulp and listens to the plastic crinkle in his firm grip.

Midorima says Takao's name, but he's not listening because his mouth feels filled-up with cotton and sandstone. He plucks Midorima's cup out of his taped hand and chugs down its contents, but the amber-colored liquid doesn't go down quite as easily as the water had.

“What the fuck are you drinking?” Takao coughs, wrinkling his nose in a show of displeasure.

“It's iced tea,” Midorima tells him. “Takao, listen to me.”

Takao knows that he's waiting for his undivided attention, but it feels almost impossible to give him seeing as his focus is branching in so many directions that he can't tell left from right. He inhales a deep breath and exhales slowly in an attempt to pace himself. “I'm listening.”

“I can't speak for whatever it is that we were doing before, since I wasn't exactly in the know, but I can promise you with one-hundred percent certainty that I have no interest in anyone other than you. No one can foretell the future by intuition alone, but I think you're it for me, too.”

Takao feels something break in his chest and like a broken mechanism, he is suddenly in desperate need of emotional maintenance. He lunges forward and wraps his arms around Midorima's waist, hugging him so tightly he worries that the other boy is going to fall apart in his grip—but he can't help it, he can't lessen his hold because he's equally afraid that he's going to disappear right before his eyes. Takao shamelessly buries his face in Midorima's chest and breathes through every layer of fragrance attached to his frame. He smells like fresh laundry and warm spice; he smells _clean_ , the way he always does, even when freckles are breaking out on his shoulders under the heat of the sun.

“You have no right to smell this good,” Takao mumbles, his lips moving against the soft weave of Midorima's fair isle sweater. Then, much to his surprise, Midorima wraps his arms around Takao's shoulders and noses the scent of his shampoo before finally resting his chin on the top of his head. “Did you just...sniff me?”

“Your hypocrisy is so sanctimonious even Hippocrates couldn't offer you a cure.”

Takao puts just enough distance between them to look Midorima in the eye. “Did _you_ just attempt to make a joke?” Takao chuckles. “Also, excuse me for being surprised but can you blame me? You've never been known for public displays of affection and here you are, hugging me in the middle of a party and brazenly sniffing my hair. You have to admit, it's a bit out of character for you.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Nothing in what I just said equates to wanting you to stop. Where's your head, Shin-chan?” Takao teases.

“Speaking of my head,” Midorima begins, and Takao's heart skids to a stop because if this is the set up to a crude joke even _within_ the _near_ _reaches_ of Takao's sense of humor, he's going to start asking questions. But when Midorima finishes the sentence with “I feel a bit strange” he visibly relaxes.

“Why? Did you spend too long thinking about me in a dress? Because I'm not ashamed to say that I do have the legs for it.”

Midorima's mouth pulls into a tight, thin frown. “No, Takao. Please, don't remind me. I've seen your legs, and while they're nice, they're not fit for women's attire.”

Takao clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Give me a month and I'll change your mind.” And while he knows he's only trying to razz Midorima, he's beginning to see this as a personal challenge.

“I feel dizzy.” Midorima furrows his brow. “And hot.”

Midorima pulls free from Takao's arms and begins to shrug out of his jacket. Before Takao can stop him, Miyaji drapes an arm around his shoulders and shoves a cup of a, now all too familiar, amber-colored beverage into Midorima's hands, sloshing some of the liquid over his taped fingers.

“How we doin', kids?” Miyaji chirps and roughly musses up Takao's hair.

“You tell me. A few moments ago, I was pulling myself through an emotional meltdown, and now I'm trying to convince Shin-chan that I'd look good in a dress while he strips out of his clothes.”

“Sounds fit for a party,” Miyaji says, shrugging. He looks at Midorima then, his brows knitting together. “I'd keep a close watch on my balls if I were you. It's pretty cold out. You don't want those babies turning into ice cubes.” He claps Takao on the back once, then immediately sets off into a jog toward a group of giggling girls.

Midorima, who is now determined to get out of his coat without setting down his drink, looks at Takao like he's caught in the throes of love and war.

Takao snorts laughter and shakes his head. “I'd be willing to bet you top dollar that Miyaji's trying to get you toasted.” He takes the new drink out of Midorima's hand and inhales its sweet and roasted aroma. “If I'm not mistaken, and I don't think I am, this is an _oolong-hai_. How many of these have you had?”

Midorima stops trying to shed his coat and thinks for a brief moment. “That will be my third. Though, I didn't drink all of the second one since you rudely took it from me without my say-so. Why?”

“I leave you alone for less than thirty minutes and this is what happens.” Takao doesn't try to hide the smile that takes over his face. “This has _shōchū_ in it. My mom loves these because they taste more like an earthy iced tea than alcohol. Damn, how thirsty were you?” he ribs, nudging the taller boy in the side.

“I didn't know what to do when that girl was talking to me so I just kept drinking in hopes that she would leave me alone.”

Midorima almost looks ashamed with his glassy eyes and rosy cheeks, and Takao can't help but take him by the hand and lace their fingers together. “You're so adorable, Shin-chan. I don't care what anyone says. Not even you. You're so cute it almost hurts.”

Midorima looks like he's going to contest Takao's adoration but the sound of someone retching rends the night and whatever he was about to say is lost to a spasm of disgust.

“Takao–”

“On it,” Takao says, mentally tuned-in to Midorima's thought process in an understanding beyond words.

Takao hands the drink off to a passerby and curls his fingers around Midorima's wrist as he sets off in the direction of his home. He doesn't know if it's the mild taint of alcohol in his bloodstream that makes him feel slightly older than he is, or if it's the amount of trust that Midorima's put in him, but he feels more responsible than he's ever felt in his life. He doesn't know if it's something he's ready to get used to but he finds that at this moment, he sort of likes the feeling.

“Takao?”

“Hm?” Takao responds as he surreptitiously slips his hand back into Midorima's own.

“ _Are_ we dating?”

Takao laughs and gently squeezes Midorima's hand. “Only if you want to.”

“I think” –Midorima chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully– “I think I'd like that.”

“Okay good, because if you'd said otherwise I'd feel really guilty about all those times I jerked off thinking about you.”

“T-Takao!” Midorima stammers, his cheeks flaring as bright as the red lanterns lighting up the restaurant across the street.

“I'm just messing with you, Shin-chan. I've got to keep you on your toes, you know? If I don't, you just might end up a desperate and lonely and drunken, unholy thing.”

“Takao?” Midorima slants his gaze sideways and Takao thinks that he can see the entire Winter Triangle in the reflection of his glasses.

“Yeah?”

“We're breaking up.”

Takao's laughter breaks into a million little pieces, left to bounce off the buildings on the opposite side of the street as the constellations in Midorima's eyes burn a little brighter than they did before.


	24. Pleading Hands

The rest of Takao's first year at Shūtoku High passes using his usual modus operandi—extemporaneously and ad libitum. That's not to say that nothing eventful happens, in fact, since the night of the party—and more importantly, since the mutual understanding that he and Midorima had ventured into waters deeper than the shallow tide pools of casual friendship became crystal clear, things have been better than ever.

Takao finds, on most days, that he's not quite as on edge as he used to be. He's starting to grow into who he is as a young adult and out of the thin-skin he wore as a kid. Things that once seemed like the last day of his life was knocking on his front door have become insignificant and trivial, no longer hard to swallow like the bitter pills that he used to choke on. The growing pains he suffered during a particularly rough growth spurt are no longer painful reminders, but trophies of war. Most significantly, however, is how much he's learned about people in such a short amount of time. People talking shit, that's normal, dirty laundry is commonplace in the heart of every lovesick and miserable teen; but the truth is, no one _really_ cares. Every whispered campaign, the back-fence talk, and the nits of hearsay that trickle down the grapevine, it's all an affectation of security. It's put-on confidence in the name of fitting in because that's all anyone wants to do in life, to be a part of something bigger than themselves, to be seen and heard and appreciated, but never ignored and rarely given prominence.

Takao has come to understand that being sixteen means self-reproach is another word for normalcy. He has learned that every dirty innuendo and whispered rumor shared between friends, and sometimes enemies, falls under the guise of being recognized for something outside of oneself. It made perfect sense, the thought coming to him one night in bed when he couldn't sleep and the air was just this side of too cold without Midorima's voice next to his ear. He wanted to be seen, recognized, _remembered_ , but at a distance—because when people get too close, the cracks in your smile become visible and the image you've spent so many years creating becomes chipped and flawed beyond repair. He likens being a teenager to the capricious life of a rose, beautiful in its own right, but where roses are fragile to the elements, torn by strong winds and hard rain, impressionable youth are withered and worn by sticks and stones and the bitter thorns of compunction and self-doubt. Furthermore, getting too close runs the risk of getting hurt, of cutting a little too deep, and no one is better at hurting a teenager than themselves.

Takao thinks while he's on his way to Midorima's home, that several years ago, he could have had every soul in his corner and he still would have felt alone because being understood was never as simple as being listened to. Sure, it helped, but it was something that had to come from within, deeper than the shiver in his blood and his bones. He had to come to terms with _himself_. He had to stop listening to mislaid opinions and the general consensus that you had to comport with society to fit _into_ society. He had to bring himself to the conclusion that if being _different_ separated him from the judgmental assholes who thrived on living their cookie-cutter lives, then he would be the anomaly the world needed. He would stop caring about the ethics included in conformity to custom and start living because life is too short to give two shits about someone who gives none about you.

And it helps, it helps a lot because living for yourself is tiring enough without living for strangers, too—that's a whole litany of other problems, and it's just plumb exhausting.

His heart feels lighter now, and when Midorima opens the front door of his home, Takao's smile is genuine. Not that he's ever had to struggle to be himself with Midorima, but there's something different about it, something that's unaffected and heartfelt and natural. Midorima lets him in for the night since his parents are away at his aunt's with his little sister. It's strange to be inside Midorima's house with the intent of staying since he's never been invited over like this before, and while Takao feels a little out of his element, it feels nice all the same. It feels like a good way to ease into the new school year—which, if he's being honest, has crept up on them way too soon.

Midorima gives Takao a tour of his home, per Takao's request, and while his home is every bit as contemporary and luxurious as Takao expects it to be, he's not as awestruck as he anticipated. Though, Takao has never been one to focus on the material value of objects. He doesn't need a place with affluent orientalism or displays of opulence to be satisfied as long as Midorima's with him. He could find happiness in a cardboard box as long as he had the other boy's love to make it real.

“So, Shin-chan, my love, what's on the menu for this evening?”

“Is food the only thing you think about?” Midorima moves Takao's overnight bag away from the entrance and places it by the staircase. “I already have a dinner order in for miso soup and hot curry rice.” He points at Takao. “I don't want to hear anything about it being healthy or not fried either.”

Takao laughs and readjusts his left slipper. “First off, I know you don't want to go down that road. If I told you what kinds of things I think about, you'd probably run for the hills. Secondly, that was a general question but I'm happy to hear that you've already ordered dinner because yes, I'm fucking starving.”

Midorima shakes his head disapprovingly and he looks like he wants to say something but a knock at the door hampers his rebuttal.

“Man, your time perception is just creepy,” Takao says, chuckling out of the room. He makes his way into the kitchen and stares at the many drawers and cabinets before beginning his search for the lacquered wood chopsticks Midorima prefers. He hears the front door close and Midorima make his way down the hall, the scrunch of brown paper underscoring his otherwise silent stride. When he finally finds the drawer he wants, he emits a disgruntled huff. “Who even needs this many chopsticks? You have enough utensils in here to serve an army.”

“My parents like to entertain sometimes.” Midorima rounds the corner and joins Takao in the kitchen. “Did you get drinks yet?”

Takao shakes his head in the negative. “I was too busy digging through your arsenal of kitchenware and spices to venture into the realm of glass and stoneware.” He plucks two sets of chopsticks out of the drawer before closing it and rounds on the other boy curiously. “Okay, so no joke, have either of your parents actually _used_ this kitchen? I get that you have like house-staff but almost none of these appliances look touched. I don't even know what some of them _do_.”

Midorima opens a cabinet and retrieves two small ceramic cups. “Honestly, I don't either. As for use,” Midorima chews on his bottom lip as he considers the question, then lifts his shoulders in a lifeless shrug. “I can't recall the last time my parents cooked a meal in here. The rice cooker and the coffee machine have gotten the most use. Other than hastily prepared breakfasts, if you want to call them that, my parents don't venture this way very often. They spend more time on the other end of the house.” Midorima disappears behind the fridge door and Takao watches him with a sad sort of longing.

“Do you ever wish things were different?”

Midorima leaves the fridge and the door swings shut of its own accord. “What do you mean?”

Takao absentmindedly twirls a pair of chopsticks between his fingers. “If you could have things...” Takao trails off and shakes his head. “Eh, it doesn't matter. Forget it.”

Midorima pours an equal amount of _amazake_ into each cup and smiles softly. “You should know by now that you won't upset me so easily. I know what you're asking, Takao.” He rights the glass decanter and makes his way back over to the stainless steel appliance that's noiseless compared to the one at Takao's home. “I think that at one time, I would have said yes, perhaps when I was younger. However, now that I don't _feel_ so alone, I don't mind spending time alone. I've always been independent and I've always appreciated the quiet. Now that I'm older, and I have an understanding of what it means to be passionate about certain subject matters, I can recognize that my parents are just doing what they love. Their jobs are as important to them as basketball is to me.”

“Yeah, and I get that. As long as you're capable of juggling both, you know? I just can't help but think back to the first time you met my parents. They were like foreign entities to you. My parents prioritize work but they also set aside time for me and my sister. I think that's important, and probably why I was so hard on your family when I didn't really have a right to be.”

Midorima walks over to where Takao is standing and runs his fingers through his unkempt mess of black hair. “You were just looking after me, Takao. You can be overbearing at times, yes, but I know and have _always_ known, that your heart is in the right place. If I felt otherwise we wouldn't be as close as we are now.”

Takao leans into Midorima's touch and smiles fondly. “You've come a long way from the boy you used to be, Shin-chan.”

Midorima removes his hand from the top of Takao's head and something affectionate and sentimental flashes across his brilliant gaze. “Get the drinks, Takao. I'll ready the table.”

Takao heeds the simple command, and as soon as Midorima takes his seat at a traditional short-legged table, Takao joins him. “This feels ass-backward,” he says, setting down their drinks. Midorima arches an eyebrow and Takao gestures to the table. “Your house is all ultramodern and cutting-edge but you're still using a _chabudai_. We've been using a Western-style table and chair set since I was like two.” He plops down on a biscuit-shaped floor cushion and wiggles into a comfortable position. “Man, is this what these are supposed to feel like? Ours at home have clearly overstayed their welcome. My bony ass is actually off the floor.”

This sets Midorima off on a tangent about his personal architectural preferences and that which appeals to his aesthetic senses. He talks about his favorite room colors and furnishings as they eat their meal, and Takao tries not to show how much the curry's heat is actively affecting him. Several cagey sniffles and a handful of treasonous tears later, Takao has learned that Midorima prefers a healthy mix of industrial, minimalist, and rustic design styles while incorporating the feng shui philosophy and balance to a zen, but uniquely layered appearance.

Once dinner is finished, Takao admits defeat and all but begs Midorima for something to assuage the flames of hell licking at his tongue. Midorima gives him a container of plain Greek yogurt, citing its health benefits as he takes on the facile task of cleaning up their dinner debris.

“It can even support workout recovery,” Midorima adds once he's finished spouting the importance of healthy gut bacteria and bone-building calcium.

“Well, that's great but it tastes like shit. Don't you have anything with flavor?” Takao turns the cool container around in his hand to read its ingredients. “Isn't it weird that we think nothing about shoveling live bacteria into our mouths just because someone told us that it's good for us? Bacteria is bacteria, man. It seems wrong somehow.”

“There's a difference between good and bad bacteria, Takao. And you only think it tastes bad because it's plain and not laden with sugar.” Midorima drapes a dish towel over a hook on the wall and returns the few dishes they used to their rightful places.

“It _does_ taste bad. It tastes like what I imagine sweaty gym socks to taste like.” Takao swallows another bite, then points the spoon at Midorima. “I'm down for experimenting with a lot of things but this was not one of them.”

Midorima rolls his eyes. “Just hurry up and finish it, idiot. If whatever terrible movie you've picked out for us isn't playing in five minutes, I'm taking my bath and calling it a night.”

“Hey! I resent that. My movies are always handpicked with love and care.”

“Takao, you made me watch a three-hour movie about the Titanic that had little to do with the real historical events.”

“I'll have you know that _Titanic_ includes plenty of historical figures and facts! They even kept some of the passengers' real names!”

Midorima stares at him, expressionless and bored. “They took the Mount Everest of shipwrecks and turned it into a love story interspersed with human loss to garner sympathy from the audience. In other words, the itinerant artist-orphan who turns to an ice bar at the end of the film, whom _you_ cried for, only existed for profit.”

Takao feels his jaw drop and the warm air in the room pour over his acidophilic tongue. “How _dare_ you. That's like...like box office blasphemy! Not to mention, completely heartless.” He shakes his head but the ruse is quickly shattered when he starts laughing. “You're one of the most honest people I know, baby, and I love you for it.” He tosses the now empty container into the trash and claps his hands together in a gesture of obligatory enthusiasm. “Are you ready to jump into a good-old-fashioned action-comedy?”

“I'm almost afraid to ask,” Midorima trails off with a sigh. “I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

“That's the spirit!” Takao claps him on the back. “I think you'll like this one!”

A little over two hours later, and an explanation as to why Takao started with part two of the Bayside Shakedown movies and not part one, Midorima looks down at Takao, whose head is in his lap, and flicks him in the center of his forehead.

“You should consider yourself lucky. If I didn't enjoy spending time with you so much, I would sue you for wasting so many hours of my life.”

Takao laughs around a yawn and Midorima has to help balance him as he fumbles his way into sitting. “You _elected_ to watch it with me! You'd have no case, Shin-chan.”

Midorima hums something that sounds like disapproval but there's not a single trace of condemnation on his face. If anything, he looks peaceful, calm, and Takao wants nothing more than to reach out and touch the softness of his features. But Midorima stands before Takao can act, and while he's slightly disappointed, he can't help but take comfort in the fact that he has plenty of time to stroke his fingertips over the contour of his cheeks and the soft dig of his mouth.

“I'm taking a bath,” Midorima tells him, eyes set on nothing in particular. “You're free to...” he clears his throat but it sends him into a coughing fit as he seemingly chokes on the air itself. Takao stands up to pat him on the back and Midorima jumps at the contact. A moment later, red-faced and teary-eyed, Midorima waves a hand to dispel Takao's concern. “The bath is big enough for two,” he says in a stern rush of declaration, voice stretched thin and hoarse.

Midorima sets off in the direction of the bathroom, his shoulders so stiff that Takao doesn't know how his upper body is capable of any movement at all. His mind feels fuzzy and there's a strange buzzing sound bubbling in his ears, and he wonders if someone opened up his skull and poured carbonation over his brain when he was too busy paying attention to the heat radiating from Midorima's thighs and the shape of his knees to notice. When he finally digests what Midorima said in its entirety, he nearly trips over his feet in his haste to track the other boy's footsteps.

It's not their first bath together—Takao immediately recounts Midorima speaking to a lion opposite him not long ago—but there's something more intimate, more _personal_ , about sharing a bath with Midorima in his own home. Once Takao has thoroughly _hosed himself down,_ he comments on the Olympic-sized bathtub and hisses pleasantly as he lowers himself into the water. The bath is big enough to accommodate their limbs with room to spare, but Midorima doesn't issue any protest when Takao sits close enough that their legs press together, so he doesn't bother moving.

Time slips away like the sidewalk chalk on the pavement outside as rain drums lightly on the roof and the surf washes over scattered pebbles in the distance. They talk about everything and nothing at all; they talk until the steam dissolves and the water shifts from appreciably hot to uncomfortably cool. And even as they begin their nightly routines—Midorima's much more convoluted than his own—they maneuver around each other naturally and without thought, in a fashion only people who have grown up together can.

Takao climbs underneath Midorima's new sheets, boasting resplendent thread-count and so soft against his skin that he never wants to leave his bed. He watches Midorima move about while his brain turns like the gears and pinions in an antique timepiece. For once, his thoughts are methodical and manageable, and he passes his time in lazy, pensive idleness that's as meditative as the calming strains of an illustrious lullaby.

He knows that Midorima likes to read before bed and that he absolutely disapproves of Takao's use of electronics before sleep. He knows that Midorima prefers to sleep in pajamas and that he seldom overheats much to Takao's astonishment. He knows that Midorima hates not sleeping with a top sheet and that he has to count his steps over to his bed because _Ending on certain numbers means bad luck, Takao._

Takao thinks about how much has changed over the years. How they no longer simply fit into each other's lives but that they're a _part_ of each other. The things that they do for each other are no longer out of impulse but habit, necessity, a type of second nature that's no longer muddied or trapped in the wild tangles of underwood. It's domestic, comfortable, becoming as familiar as Midorima's spit-damp and kiss-bruised lips, and Takao finds that he likes the feeling to a very high degree.

He busies himself with prosaic relationship comparisons while Midorima tugs on his nightcap and turns down the light. He thinks that Midorima is the river and he is the rain, he's the lock and Takao's the chain, and when Midorima climbs into bed, he's trying to deduce who would take the role of the soul and who would be the savior. He's still caught in trenches of banal thought when Midorima nudges him with his knee, and Takao doesn't need him to speak to know what he wants. He slips further beneath the covers and rolls over so Midorima can drape an arm over his hip. He's not prepared, however, for when he slides his fingers beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt— _I must have forgotten mine at home again_ —and presses his hand against his stomach.

“Fuck, Shin-chan! What did you do, stick your hands in the freezer before coming to bed?”

Midorima chuckles and presses his nose against the curve of Takao's neck. “You're so warm,” he breathes, and the sound of his voice is enough to melt the cold right out of Midorima's fingertips.

“You're literally being so rude right now, stealing all of my warmth.” Takao shifts carefully and presses himself closer to Midorima's body. “On top of it, you're touching my bare skin _and_ breathing against my neck. I feel like I'm going to short-circuit.”

“Do you want me to move?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Takao says, holding his hand over Midorima's own for needless emphasis. “You're mine now, baby. I got you in my grips and I'm never letting you go.”

“Technically it's the other way around,” Midorima says, jade coloring the soft edges of his sleep-thick tone.

“Technicalities are outdated. I'm here for nonspecific details and vague undertones.”

“You're talking out of your ass right now, aren't you?”

“Sure am!” Takao snickers, still laughing when he slips his hand beneath his shirt to tangle their fingers together against the proud definition of his abdomen. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Mhm,” Midorima hums and burrows himself deeper beneath the blankets.

“You've always talked about being a doctor and I get that medical stuff is your passion or whatever, but why haven't you considered furthering your basketball career? It's obvious that you'd have one if you wanted it.”

Midorima is quiet for a moment and Takao wonders if he's fallen asleep, but then he exhales a breath to make room for response, and Takao bodily shivers.

“It's not that I haven't considered it, but I like to be as rational as I can and sports leave an indelible stain on one's body, as you know. And while my success would likely be inferential, I don't want to be forced into retirement before I'm ready. If I work hard and succeed at becoming a surgeon, I have a better chance at long-term satisfaction and prosperity. Notwithstanding my determination to work hard, basketball comes naturally to me, and I won't deny that I have a gift for it, but it offers no future guarantee. Furthermore, I'm not interested in the art of entertainment and what more are you truly capable of giving as a sports-player?”

“Inspiration?” Takao says after a moment, albeit he fully understands Midorima's reasoning.

Midorima mutters something unintelligible and slots his calf between Takao's scissored legs. His breathing shifts in the way Takao has learned it does when he's falling asleep, and while Takao believes himself still wide-awake, it's not long before he follows suit.

He wakes hours later, however, to the sounds of tight, uneasy breathing and sharp, erratic movements. He blinks several times in an attempt to pull the room into focus, to rouse his awareness, and when he feels Midorima's hand twitch against his midriff he remembers that he's not at home, alone in his bed.

Takao rolls over to face Midorima directly, frowning as the other boy whimpers pitifully into his pillow. It's not his first time dealing with one of Midorima's nightmares. He wouldn't necessarily consider his actions protocol since he's only had to wake him on several occasions, but he knows how to handle his bad dreams all the same.

“Shin-chan? Baby?” Takao whispers, tentatively. He rests his hand on Midorima's shoulder in the barest of touches, meant to promise safety and comfort but stray from alarm; and while the point of contact is meant to soothe, Midorima's body responds to the gentle friction like a bow stringed instrument. He emits another unconscious whimper and when Takao sweeps his thumb across his clothed shoulder, Midorima relaxes enough to frame a single, whispered word on his lips. “Takao.”

Takao's heart comes to a grinding halt and his mental acuity goes to pieces. He wonders what Midorima's dreaming of because his nightmares have always run the gamut from friends to foes but they've always revolved around Teikō. Midorima had recently confessed to him that, although he and Akashi were working on patching things up, he often had vivid dreams of the boy torturing him in various ways. He wonders now if he, himself, has become a part of that torture.

“Shintarō,” Takao says, louder this time. He cups his cheek and drags the pad of his thumb over the bottom line of his mouth. “Wake up, baby. It's just a dream. I'm right here.”

Midorima's breath hitches and Takao thinks that his lashes flutter like he's leaving the amaranth haze of slumber and crawling back into the land of the cognizant. His breathing pattern changes and Takao notes that his skin feels clammy against the heart of his palm. He furrows his brow and feels his mouth go hard, worried that Midorima is trapped in some terrible fantasy. His want to console him turns desperate and he slides his hand through Midorima's soft strands, pushing his nightcap away from his head and whispering “I'm here” and “it's okay” on repeat.

“Takao,” Midorima whispers again, and it sounds more desperate, more frantic this time. Takao's heart, somehow working again, skips a beat, and Midorima groans as if he's in pain.

“I swear, if you don't wake up in the next ten seconds, I'm slapping you awake,” Takao soft-soaps. He knows full well that he won't follow through with the threat but it makes him feel better nonetheless.

Midorima arches into Takao, and Takao's so occupied with the wanton notion that fills his head that he almost misses the low groan that pours past Midorima's parted lips as thick and sweet as honey. “Takao,” Midorima gasps, his voice coming apart in his throat in a way that breaks Takao's name down to a shuddering _oh_. The sound lingers on the air, stretching further than the delicate curve of Midorima's spine.

“Shin-chan,” Takao groans. “Please wake up–”

Midorima startles Takao into silence as his hand reaches out to curl around the front of his shirt. It's not the first time that he's touched him in his sleep but it's never been like this, it's never felt so real, and Takao wonders if he's fucking with him because he's pulling him forward like he's completely aware of what he's doing.

“Kazu–“ Midorima whispers reverently against Takao's lips. His mouth falls open in startled awareness because this _is_ the first time that Midorima's ever used his given name, or at least the start of it, and it sounds so remarkable that Takao's stomach trades places with his heart. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up to what's happening, but when it does, the reason for the dissection of his name becomes glaringly clear. Midorima is kissing him, open-mouthed and wet and warm—it's filthy and delicious and it takes every grain of Takao's control to keep from pouncing on him. Midorima presses closer against him, his body undulating in slow, small circles as he slips his tongue inside Takao's mouth.

Takao shutters his gaze because he thinks he must look pretty fucking creepy with his eyes bulging out of his head in surprise. He drags his nails over the line of Midorima's scalp and braces his hand at the back of his head, fingers tightening on his hair. He deepens the kiss and Midorima makes a noise that sounds uncharacteristically feral and Takao's grateful for the bed beneath him because his knees go weak and his legs turn to jelly and _holy shit_ , he thinks helplessly, Midorima's _hard_. And when Midorima ruts against him, the dense fog beclouding his mind lifts.

He pulls back and shakes Midorima awake, perhaps a little too roughly.

Midorima startles and blinks his eyes open, and Takao doesn't need light to see how glazed over they are when he looks at him. Midorima is breathing heavier than usual and Takao's heart is hammering so hard he's not sure if his chest can hold it. “Takao?” he breathes, the confusion that leaves his mouth corresponding with the way he looks.

“It's me. I'm here.” It's all Takao can think to say because he's never witnessed Midorima come so undone and he's not entirely sure that he can process the information without malfunctioning. Furthermore, he doesn't know how Midorima's going to react when he realizes that he's hard beneath his pajamas and pressed firmly against Takao's thigh.

“Why did you wake me up? It's still dark outside.”

Takao stares at Midorima with so much predilection for the other boy that it hurts. He shifts the hand in his hair and returns it to his cheek, thumb stroking over the angle of his cheekbone. “I'm stumbling through the same clueless labyrinth of suppositions that you are, baby.”

Midorima's eyebrows knit together and a wrinkle lines his forehead as he tries to work through whatever is running through his head. The house is eerily quiet save for the raspy drag of their collective breaths, until Midorima finally breaks the silence with a choked-out, “What?”

Takao chuckles and the sound vibrates low in his chest. “You're adorable, Shin-chan.” He presses a fleeting kiss to the line creasing Midorima's forehead. “I woke up to the sound of you—of what I thought was a nightmare but...” Takao feels heat creep into his cheeks and it shouldn't be so hard to talk about because Midorima's unusually innocent expression is miles from intimidating, but he feels like he's seconds away from having a heart attack. He exhales a bated breath and laughs a touch too uncomfortably for it to sound normal. “I was trying to wake you up and you kissed me and I probably wouldn't have stopped you if— _fuck_ —you said my name in your sleep...” It's not what he wants to say but once it's left his mouth he thinks it sounds better than recounting the more telling details.

Midorima stays silent for so long that the lack of sound begins to fester like an open wound on Takao's skin. He wants to pick at it, scratch at it until it bleeds, or at least until Midorima comes back to himself and tells him to stop. Finally, when he can't take the weight of it anymore, he clears his throat, then asks, “Are you okay?”

Midorima stares at him for a handful of beats, then nods, but the gesture is so stiff that Takao's surprised his neck doesn't creak with the motion. “I'm fine,” he says, slowly, as if he's afraid of blurting something sacred and secret.

Takao sees the lie for what it is, completely—it's in the higher than usual pitch of his tone, the red flushing his cheeks, the subtle but noticeable shift of his hips when he puts distance between them. Takao half-expects Midorima to say something like _it's only natural_ or _don't make a big deal out of nothing_ or hell, even _thanks for not taking advantage of me_ but he's pressing his lips together so firmly that they've gone white in the center. It's evident that speaking is the last thing he wants to do.

And Takao isn't exactly keen on speaking right now either; what he _does_ want is to go back to kissing Midorima. Yet, he's not convinced—rather, he's entirely _unconvinced_ —that he could do so without making matters worse so he capitulates in the name of prudence. He lies back down and pulls the covers up to his chin, only allowing himself the luxury of holding Midorima's hand.

Neither of them says anything more about the situation but Takao's not confident that either of them falls back to sleep either. There's too much implicit credulity amid them, sprinkled with emotion and disseminate knowledge despite the many burning questions lighting up the room.

Takao watches the shadows of many trees gently sway on Midorima's wall, standing like pleading hands and imploring gestures. He closes his eyes to shut out their shade when their requests become supererogatory and the harvest offers to pay dirt for gold. Every mental object that penetrates his mind bleeds like an afterthought and Takao gives up trying to make sense of what he's feeling.

There's no use in chasing what you already know, after all.


	25. Bergamot and Oakmoss

Takao decides, too late in the year, that he wants to celebrate as many holidays with Midorima as he can. Not that they haven't already celebrated many advents together, but Takao wants to make an entire year of it. He's missed some of the year's more prestigious holidays and annual events, so he decides that this makeshift tradition begins now, less than a month before the start of summer vacation, and will roll over into the following year.

Second year of Shūtoku High has been just as rigorous and grueling as their first year. Takao thought he'd prepared himself for hard training, but _self-preservation be damned_ because if anything, Miyaji's brother is nothing short of _brutal,_ and Kimura's brother isn't far off. Not that Takao has anything against the physicality of it all, he's just as thirsty for blood as the rest of the team, but he hadn't expected to feel like he'd been wiped off the mat in such a short amount of time.

He's rubbing at a knot in his shoulder when his mother suggests he take Midorima to the Tanabata festival in Hiratsuka, which just so happens to fall on Midorima's birthday. He throws his arms around her shoulders and squeezes her in such a tight hug that it lifts her off the floor. He kisses her cheek and thanks her for her creative genius, and while he doesn't further elaborate, he's thanking her for not only accepting _him_ but for actively supporting his choices. She pats him on the head and promises to pick him up two tickets for the JR Tōkaidō Line from Tokyo to Hiratsuka before the end of the week.

Takao kisses her opposite cheek before fumbling with his phone to call Midorima. He realizes, in very short hindsight, that he should have called Midorima before making plans, but he can't be bothered with minor discrepancies.

“Takao,” Midorima answers on the third ring.

“Hey! So, I hope you don't have anything planned for your birthday because I'm taking you to the Tanabata festival. I already bought the tickets so don't argue with me.” He goes into his room and begins the search for his wallet so he's not entirely lying.

“Why would I argue with you? I'm rather fond of the Tanabata festival.”

“I should have known that this wouldn't be your first time going,” Takao sighs. He hears the familiar sound of leather against pavement and smiles. “Are you playing basketball without me?”

“Presently. Though, I wouldn't be opposed if you wanted to join me.”

Takao's smile breaks into a wide grin. “Is this your way of flirting with me, Shin-chan?” He laughs and shucks his jeans in favor of a pair of loose shorts. “Where are you at?”

“Takao, I don't even know _how_ to flirt. And I'm at our usual place.”

“Yeah, and I've already gotten blue-balled twice. Imagine what things would be like if you flirted with me in earnest.” Takao debates his t-shirt and decides to change into a tank top instead. “I'll be there in like...” Takao hums in consideration, “ten?”

“Why are you asking me?” Midorima sips some kind of beverage and Takao can hear his throat work on a swallow over the line. “I don't know how long it's going to take you.”

“I'm not asking you. I'm trying to give you an accurate guesstimate because I never know how my legs are going to work these days. I swear” –Takao drops the phone as he attempts to tug his limbs free of his t-shirt– “ _shit_.” He retrieves the phone and checks to make sure that the call is still connected before continuing. “I swear that Miyaji has it out for us. Some days my body feels fine, but on others, it takes me everything I have just to get out of bed.”

“You're not taking proper care of yourself. Have you been soaking with the bath salts I gave you? Have you been properly stretching? Resting? If you don't take–”

“Okay! I'll see you soon, Shin-chan!” Takao ends the call, still smiling.

They play basketball together several more times before the day of the festival. It's an easy way to pass time, and since Midorima considers it a fruitful activity, Takao doesn't have to idle away time trying to convince him to leave his house.

Since they keep busy up to the day of the festival, the wait doesn't seem so long. It's a one-hour trip to Hiratsuka but Midorima and Takao have no trouble passing the time with a pleasant conversation about childhood folklore and the things they used to believe in.

When they finally step out of the train station in their summer yukata, Takao inhales a deep breath of what he's sure is a combination of grilled seafood and _takoyaki_. The streets are already overflowing with other attendees, which allows Takao to hold Midorima's hand without rousing too much suspicion. It's busy enough that they most likely won't be seen, and even if they are, it's understandable that one wouldn't want to find themselves separated in a crowd of this size. The street-facing bars are rife with loud music that contrasts poorly with the singing floating down from the loudspeakers but there's so much life and energy in the sound that Takao doesn't mind the strange dichotomy. He expects Midorima to be the opposite but when he steals a glimpse at him through the gray film of food-smoke wafting through the passersby, he looks unperturbed.

Takao points out a large Anpanman balloon bobbing among colorful streamers and Midorima offers to buy him a smaller version, which Takao politely declines. A particularly enthusiastic street vendor catches Midorima's attention, however, and he purchases a Tanabata-themed origami kit for his sister.

They walk for a while, discussing which establishments have the best decorations. They bicker occasionally but there's no real heat to it and most times, they wind up laughing or delivering each other a playful nudge in the side. The streets are full of people whose high spirits are infectious, and Takao knows that Midorima's been affected when he doesn't protest Takao's food choices.

The sun is mercilessly hot, and once Takao and Midorima have filled up on fried foods and refreshing drinks, Takao is more than anticipating nightfall. They still have time until the sky grows heavy with pinks and purples and oranges, so they join in the crowd and pause to write their wishes on small, colorful strips of paper. Takao tries to steal a glimpse of Midorima's wish, to no avail. He puts on his best pout but Midorima scolds him with a muttered _nanodayo_ as he puts the finishing touches on his neat writing. Takao waits for Midorima to tie his paper to a branch of a decorative bamboo tree, then adds his own to the culmination of other people's hope and dreams.

Midorima stops to watch children fish for prizes every now and then, and Takao finds that every time this happens, he spends more time staring at Midorima than the overzealous striplings. As the sun begins to set and the night-time illuminations slowly flicker into life, Midorima calls him out on it.

“You've been staring at me a lot today.”

Takao grabs Midorima's wrist and tugs him into a line of people waiting to get their hands on a variety of sugary sweets. “Did you ever play _nagashi-sōmen_ with your sister when you were younger? My parents used to rig up this long chute of bamboo in the kitchen since we live in an apartment. Mom would turn on the sink and my sister and I would spill dipping sauce all over the kitchen floor as we chased after the noodles. My sister usually got me good with her chopsticks, at least once, and sometimes my dad would eat the noodles we didn't catch straight out of the large pot at the end.” Takao laughs and looks up at Midorima, warm and thoughtful. “Sometimes, when I'm staring at you, I'm thinking about all the things that we didn't get to do together when we were kids. And sometimes, it makes me sad, and I wish we could go back to those days.” He sweeps his tongue out across his lips. “But most times, I'm thinking about what we can do from this day forth to make up for lost time.”

Midorima is quiet for a long moment, then he looks up to the darkening sky and says: “They should meet tonight. The forecast called for clear skies.”

Takao needlessly follows his gaze and nods. “Do you believe in any of the legends we heard growing up?” He worries the bottom line of his mouth between his teeth. “I'd like to think some of them are real but I don't know if I'm wholly convinced.”

“I think the ideology behind certain legends corresponds with the outlook you have on life. If you believe that it's possible, then you can will it so.” Midorima's fingers brush against the back of Takao's hand. “It's similar to the principles and ordinances of religion, in my opinion. Articles of faith differ from one religion to the next, and while we can't _know_ the truth, we can give credence to that in which we trust. If you don't believe in religion, then you put your faith in other outlets.”

“Okay, I think I get what you're saying.” Takao bites his lip a little too hard and jerks. “So, do _you_ believe in the Tanabata legend?”

Midorima frowns. “I think such a story is possible but it's a bit depressing, isn't it? To think that you could fall in love just to have it taken away from you so cruelly. If I could only see you once a year, I don't think I could... I wouldn't be satisfied with that. Perhaps it's a lesson in selflessness, but isn't the point of love to spend your life with that person?”

“Yeah, not to mention, if the weather intervenes then you're screwed for a whole 'nother year. Come to think of it, that Emperor was a real jerk.” A little girl ahead of them in line giggles and the woman next to her—presumably her mother—turns just enough to flash Takao a glare over her tight-lipped expression of disapproval.

Midorima shakes his head and sighs. “Takao, one day, you will learn when to keep your mouth shut.”

“Maybe so, but that day is not today, Shin-chan!” Takao claps Midorima on the back, then moves his hand to the curve of his shoulder, using him as support so he can speak directly into his ear. “And don't think that I missed how you subtly implied that you're in love with me. I'm currently having a heart attack but I still might go as far as deeming this the best day of my life. So if I die, please know that I loved you too.”

“Stop it, Takao,” Midorima says, gently shoving Takao away from him. “The only way you're leaving here in an ambulance is if you continue to clog your arteries with junk food.”

Takao rubs his hands together in a show of excitement. “Only time will tell.”

Midorima rolls his eyes but he says nothing when they make it to the front of the line and Takao orders two candy apples and _karumeyaki_ for them to share.

When they've finished eating, Takao's fingers are sticky and his back molars ache the way do when he's had too much sugar. He doesn't mention it to Midorima, knowing that he'd never let him live it down, and instead strikes up a conversation about the upcoming Interhigh championship. A parade marches by down a path behind them and before long, cheers fill up the night as the sky remains clear and everyone celebrates the meeting of the two star-crossed lovers, Orihime and Hikoboshi.

Takao presses the back of his hand against Midorima's as he stares up at the sky. “This was nice. Maybe next year we'll go to the Sendai festival. If you want to.” He looks over at Midorima, whose cheeks are flushed, and decides that he's not fully convinced that the stars stippling his glasses are the same stars sparkling in his eyes.

Midorima reaches out for Takao's hand, his fingers far less sticky than Takao's own, and curls his long digits around the shorter boy's waiting appendage. Midorima's grip is firm but it's easy to discern that he's shaking through the hard press of warm fingertips. Takao is about to ask him if he's feeling okay when Midorima clears his throat and chews on the inside of his cheek, a clear sign that he's working up to something.

Takao waits despite how rapidly his patience is growing thin. Then Midorima faces him directly, his attention fixed on Takao's nose as if he can't bring himself to look him in the eye. “I would go anywhere with you. I still—I enjoy my free time alone but I'm happiest when you're around. Though, I'm not entirely sure why,” he adds, and Takao understands because playful insults help calm him down in the face of raw emotion and vulnerable expression.

Takao catches a bead of sweat at Midorima's temple on his thumb. “You don't need to know why, just promise me that you won't ever stop. Or at least wait until we get older, move in together, get married, and let the bonds of matrimony tear us apart.”

Midorima visibly bites back a smile and gently smacks Takao's hand away. “Let's go home. I want to scrub all of the physical parts of today from my skin and change into something more comfortable.” Midorima's eyes flit to the crowd and Takao realizes, for the first time, that being in such a large assembly of people when you have as many unfounded fears and mental disorders that Midorima does can't be easy. It makes him appreciate the neurotic tsundere all the more and with greater reason.

“Why do you look like that? Is there something else that you wanted to do?” Midorima checks his watch and whatever he's thinking forces his features into a soft expression of concern. “We don't have a lot of time before our train–”

“It's not that,” Takao interjects. “Remember when I told you that I fall in love with you a little more each day? Well, that's still very much a thing. It's like every time I think I know everything there is to know about you, you surprise me. Or maybe it's more like...I gravitate toward the things I overlooked about you while I simultaneously understand more about myself. I don't know, I'm still learning how this whole being in a relationship thing works. It's not like I really stuck to the books, you know?” Midorima's brows furrow to form a groove between them and Takao laughs. “I just mean that a lot of people don't fall in love _before_ they start dating. It's usually more of a gradual thing. But for me, love hit me like a bus and just kind of kept running me over.”

“Oh,” is all Midorima says but his cheeks deepen in color all the same.

“Come on, Shin-chan. You're right, we should get going. We're at a star festival and you're shining the brightest from all the rest in the dark, and to be quite frank, I don't feel like sharing you.”

“Shut up, Takao.”

“Will do, as soon as we get on the train. But my silence doesn't come cheap. You're going to have to lend me your shoulder.”

A low hum vibrates in Midorima's chest, and if Takao were anyone else, the sound would play like objection, but he knows better.

Nearly thirty minutes later, as expected, Takao is fast asleep against Midorima's shoulder as the train speeds down the line toward Tokyo.

They attend the Gion Matsuri to catch the grand procession of floats ten days later. However, much to Takao's chagrin, they miss out on Tenjin Matsuri due to a variety of reasons, one being the distance and the time it would require for travel. It fell on an unusually hectic day, and neither of them could find time to squeeze a festival into their busy schedules. Still, Takao had jokingly suggested they spend the night at a hotel, which made Midorima turn nearly purple at the proposal. Furthermore, they both knew that Miyaji would skin their hides if he discovered they were out having fun when the Interhigh preliminaries were fast approaching the finals.

* * *

During the preliminaries, the other Miracles and their teams seem more determined than ever, making the competition seem somehow tougher than it had last year.

Shūtoku does well but they ultimately lose to Tōō, who places first in the end, winning the title of Interhigh champions. And while it couldn't have been more clear that each team wanted to win, Tōō justly earned their spot at the top. While the participating teams had been hungry for victory, Aomine was _starved—_ once again proving himself worthy of his title as an ace.

Takao suggests the Nebuta Matsuri but Midorima is still working through the internal struggle of separating loss from failure. It's an association that's been weighing heavy on his heart for years, and while he's miles from where he started in terms of self-criticism, the tendency to look inward and seek out his flaws is still within his field of vision. Be that as it may, Midorima does agree with Takao's proposition that they do something locally.

After an afternoon of browsing unique shops and eating shaved ice, they visit Tokyo Midtown for a special summer illumination event. The atmosphere is more relaxed compared to the festivals they've attended recently, but it's exactly that laid-back environment that makes for a perfect end to summer vacation. It's busy but not overcrowded, allowing Midorima to feel more at ease; which seems only fair given that Midorima had readily agreed to go along with Takao's new tradition.

At the end of the day, they decide to go back to Midorima's house, and even though Takao is allowed to visit him, now, he sneaks into his room for old time's sake and they spend the night discussing upcoming festivals, events, and the Winter Cup.

Takao is getting ready to tuck himself into the end of Midorima's bed when the taller boy drops his hand on his shoulder, stilling his movement.

“If you want, you can sleep next to me.”

Takao looks at Midorima because, well, it didn't sound like an offering. It sounded more like, _I want you to sleep next to me_ , and Takao's heart nearly leaps out of his chest.

“Are you sure?”

Midorima nods and draws back the covers in an unspoken indication of the space Takao's allowed to occupy. And it takes every shred of control Takao has in his body, in his _blood_ , to not dive headfirst into that space. Instead, he climbs into the bed as carefully as he can and waits, albeit on tenterhooks, for Midorima to join him.

Following his nightly routine, Midorima slides into bed, and Takao wraps his arms around his warm body before Midorima has the impulse to change his mind. Somewhere in the back of his head, he expects protest, warns himself of it and against the impending disappointment should it happen, but it doesn't. Midorima settles against his chest like this is something they've done for years, and Takao thinks that he must be able to feel the pounding of his heart against his back for how hard it's beating.

He means to ask if holding him is okay despite Midorima's concession through body language but what comes out instead is: “Remember how we used to do this as kids?”

Midorima bows his head in acknowledgment and Takao thinks that he can feel the twitch of his pulse beneath where his palm is resting against his stomach. “It feels like so long ago,” he says, sleep framing his lips.

For the first time in a long time, Takao is at a loss for words. Not because he can't think of anything to say, his mind is so full of mental objects, useless knowledge, and unmeant concepts that he seldom has room for much else. No, it's more due to the fact that his thoughts are hanging in suspension because the warmth of Midorima's body pressed up against the shape of his own is addicting, like an inveterate need that's being actualized at long last. It feels like home. It feels like standing in the thick of a celebration knowing that Midorima only has eyes for him. It feels like every good feeling he's ever had has integrated into a single cell, an illustration of unadulterated affection that manifests itself as the heat of Midorima's body against his own.

By the time he's finished over-analyzing every good and bad thing that's ever happened in his life, Midorima is snoring softly against his chest. Takao snuggles closer and slides his hand higher, his fingers stopping over the steady thrum of Midorima's heartbeat. He closes his eyes and relishes the feeling of being so close to the person he's loved for over half his entire life.

He falls asleep not long after, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of Midorima's breathing, and comforted by dreams of the future and the scent of Midorima's hair filling his nose.

The smells of bergamot and oakmoss will never be quite the same.


	26. Flashbulb Eyes

Between September and the end of December, Takao and Midorima fit a number of things in and around their active school days. Most of their time goes to basketball practice, but where they can find free time, they continue with Takao's established practice of festivals and travel.

They visited Yasukuni Shrine to celebrate the autumnal equinox per Midorima's suggestion, Moominvalley Park per Takao's suggestion, celebrated Culture Day at Shūtoku, paid a visit to Hama Rikyu, and traveled to The Chichibu Night Festival.

The Chichibu Night Festival has won the title of Takao's favorite festival out of those they've had the pleasure of attending thus far. It had been impressive enough with its extraordinarily decorated floats and live music, but it was watching the long fireworks display while drinking warm _amazake_ —that may or may have not been purchased underhandedly—with Midorima that earned its place at the top of Takao's list.

They had spent the week leading up to Christmas strolling through shopping malls. This hadn't been easy at first because Shūtoku's basketball club ended the year with another tournament lost. They were bested by Yōsen in the semi-finals, and Rakuzan returned to steal the Winter Cup for failing to do so the previous year. The holiday spirit, however, eventually triumphed over their loss and their hearts were lighter for it.

On Christmas day they ate chicken at Takao's apartment and indulged in Christmas cake at Midorima's house, where Takao fell asleep with his head in Midorima's lap as a Christmas movie played on the small television in Midorima's room.

However, if he were to choose a favorite _memory_ , it would be today's, for this moment on the sky deck of Tokyo City View, in particular. Though, watching his and Midorima's little sisters run around the park where they played basketball on New Year's Day was a close second. They had hit it off at once, and nothing had been sweeter than the joyful chorus of their giggles when their kite strings got tangled up in a mess of paper and string.

Takao had used the money he'd received from his parents on New Year's Day to pay for dinner at the observatory's Moon Lounge. They ordered deviled fried chicken (Takao's), a blue cheese and salmon omelet (Midorima's), and oven-baked raclette cheese and potatoes, which they shared. For dessert, Takao ordered the matcha chiffon cake of which Midorima, despite absolutely _refusing_ to have room for dessert, kept stealing bites. By the time they'd finished eating, Takao was still frowning over the bite of omelet he'd tried. _That's disgusting, Shin-chan._

But Takao would eat an entire blue cheese and salmon omelet if it meant that he could savor this very moment forever.

The night air is chilly but not unbearable; be that as it may, Takao pretends to be colder than he is so he can tuck himself into Midorima's side. The sky is clear and cloudless, and despite the multitudinous lights from the city below, stars in their own right, the stars stippling the celestial ceiling are prominent. It's as if a part of the cosmos cracked open and all of the dust and the gas in the galaxy collapsed at one time, giving birth to millions upon millions of new stars.

“I think your interests are starting to rub off on me,” Takao says, not so subtly placing his hand over Midorima's own, where it's currently resting on the frigid railing.

“Why's that?”

“I'm starting to develop a real affinity for stars. Let's go to a planetarium for our next date.”

The corner of Midorima's mouth twitches and he looks at Takao with an arched brow. “So this _is_ a date.”

“Yeah, I mean, I sort of... I wanted to take you out on the first since Shōgatsu is such an important holiday but this place was closed then, so I just...” Takao shifts, slightly uncomfortable. “Well, we are dating, after all. I figured that we should—it seemed like a good time for us to consummate our relationship.”

Midorima sputters and Takao can see how red his cheeks have gone even with the dark embrace of nightfall. “Takao! What exactly do you have planned?”

Takao laughs and throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “All of my plans have been laid bare, baby. I promise. I'm not hiding any tricks up my sleeve. Why?”

Midorima, who's still wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, looks at Takao as if he's just had a stroke. “Don't use words you don't know the meaning of, Takao.”

Takao feels as baffled as he must look because Midorima is staring back at him like he's trying to get him to stick his hand into a nest of murderous hornets. “What?” he asks finally, laughter light on his breath.

It takes Midorima a long moment to respond, and when he finally does his voice wavers between soft and near-silent. “When used in that sense, the way you said it, it means to have” –Midorima bends down to whisper in Takao's ear– “sexual...intercourse, also known as fornication.”

Takao is quiet for several beats, then he's laughing so loud that his amusement echoes in the night. He holds his hands over his stomach and laughs until tears spill from the corners of his eyes. “I should have known, judging by your expression,” Takao says, at last, chuckling around sniffles. “I just meant–”

“I know what you meant,” Midorima blurts as if he's afraid of another misinterpretation.

Takao wipes at his eyes and manages to quell the laughter bouncing around in his chest. “Don't worry, Shin-chan. I might be using a cane by the time you decide to take that step but I'll wait for you to make that decision—no matter how long it takes. I'm content the way we are.”

Takao doesn't expect Midorima to reply but when he does, his response surprises him more than the fact that he's acknowledging what Takao's just said. “Do you ever think about it— _that_? Us?”

Takao can see that Midorima's struggling, that his voice is forced into unnatural casualness, and that if he were to take him by the hand right now, he would likely find his fingers shaky and his palm sweaty.

“I've wanted to have sex with you every night since tenth grade,” Takao rasps, trying to keep his voice steady. “Maybe a few nights in ninth grade, too, give or take.”

Midorima's face goes beet-red and his grip on the railing is so hard that his knuckles could contest the glow of white light emanating from the city below. “Did you feel the same for me back then as you do now?”

Takao chews on his bottom lip, momentarily lost in thoughts of the past. “Back then I wanted a lot of things. I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to hold you and kiss you, keep you tucked away at my house.” Takao huffs a breath of laughter. “When we were younger, I almost begged you to move in with us. I wanted to touch you–”

“When we were kids!” Midorima exclaims in the form of a question, shock overriding his discomfort.

Takao laughs loudly, though with less volume than his outburst a few moments ago. “Not sexually. Not when we were kids. I mean, I thought about kissing you when we were like eleven, but I just wanted to be next to you all the time. I wanted to know what your hand felt like in mine. I wanted to cuddle with you and run my fingers through your hair. Anytime you'd let me throw my legs over your lap or you'd put your head in mine, I felt...happy. Like, _truly_ happy.”

Midorima appears to be contemplating Takao's words, and Takao worries that he's admitted too much. He reaches for Midorima's hand and drags his fingertips across the whites of his knuckles. “Loosen up, baby,” he says softly. “You're gonna pop a blood vessel or something.”

Midorima lets some of the tension leave his grip but his expression still simulates concern in a way that makes Takao feel uneasy. “You didn't exactly answer my question. Do you still feel that way about me now? Do you still want me as much?” His voice wavers and Takao can see how hard he's biting his lip by the way it pales in its center.

Takao can _feel_ how pained he looks. “Shin-chan, if you were any slower, you'd be going backward.”

Midorima glares at him and Takao watches the corners of his mouth pull into a deep frown. “That's just rude, Takao.”

Takao smiles and buries his hands in the front of Midorima's jacket to spin him away from the railing. “Look at me.” Takao ducks his head in an attempt to force the other boy to hand over his focus. “I don't see myself ever feeling this way about anyone else. I don't now, and I know how much pretending to see into the future pisses you off” –Midorima chuckles– “but I don't think I ever will. I've said it before and I'll say it until it drives you crazy if I have to—you're it for me. I love you more now than I did then because with each day we spend together, I get to learn something new about you. I love you so much that it hurts sometimes. But it's the kind of hurt I never want to lose because I can't imagine a life without you.”

Takao takes Midorima's face in his hands and looks him directly in the eye. “I brought you here, on this date, to tell you that I plan on becoming a nurse. I want us to go to college together, if it's what you want, too. As long as you'll have me, I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, baby.”

Midorima tucks his hands into Takao's coat pockets. “Takao, sometimes you're such a sap that it makes me wonder why I like you so much.” He presses his lips against the visible line of Takao's hair, between his forehead and his knit beanie, and lets the kiss linger for just long enough to be more than chaste. “Then I remember how good you are to me and how difficult I can be, and I don't know what I did to deserve you in my life.”

Takao presses his forehead against Midorima's chest and shamelessly breathes him in. He feels something strange stirring in the pit of his stomach and he wants to do what he always does when he feels like things have crossed that threshold between casual conversation and intimacy, which is hide behind the guise of humor. But the only thing that tumbles out of his mouth is: “I know the feeling.”

They stand like that for a long time, and Takao thinks they might be using the excuse of staying warm but he knows better. These are the types of moments that separate the diamonds from the sandy shores, and Takao would polish glass for the rest of his life and risk experiencing the rush of lightning kiss his toes if only for more moments like this.

“Actually, Takao, I need to tell you something now, or I fear I never will.”

Takao's heart kicks into overdrive and he worries that his perfect memory is seconds away from shattering. Still, he forces himself to take a step back and look at Midorima face-to-face because it's the polite thing to do—or more accurately, if what the taller boy is about to say crushes his soul, he'll have enough time to escape before he falls to pieces. “What is it, Shin-chan?”

Midorima looks unusually serious, even for him, and Takao thinks he forgets how to breathe. He feels like all of the oxygen in his lungs has been sucked away into the night air, hopelessly abandoned like the many festival lanterns lost to the breeze—forgotten and cast away.

Midorima opens his mouth but closes it again to clear his throat. When he parts his lips in a second attempt, Takao feels his knees weaken. “From the moment I met you, I felt something for you that I couldn't fully understand. I didn't know if that meant that I liked you or that I was...averse to you,” Midorima begins. Takao chuckles at Midorima's choice of words and it makes a smile light up his eyes. “I think...I think that I'm better because of you. Not just my compulsions or my inability to understand my emotions, but everything. You make me happy, and I know that sometimes you think I'm being difficult, but I need you to know that at the end of every day, I'm happy because of you.” He inhales a deep breath and closes his eyes, and Takao reaches out to grab his hand because he knows how hard this is for him. “You're the better half of me—the only half that I'll ever need. You can be demanding and challenging sometimes but that just— _damn it_ —it makes you so easy to love because you're everything I'm not. And sometimes I feel so lucky to have you because I know that you'll let me feel whatever I need to feel, that you'll put up with my pace even when it's hurting you.” Midorima's cheeks are flushed with cold but his entire complexion is the shade of rose-leaves in their prime. “I just—you've already confessed so much to me and I've been trying to figure out how to put my feelings into words for a long time now. For some reason, this felt like the right time. I'd like to stop speaking now. Please help me.”

Takao laughs wetly, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears—he sniffles, but he doesn't try to hide the truth that Midorima's words have drawn over his face. “That was the most romantic thing I've ever heard—and now that I've admitted that, it's probably the last romantic thing I'll ever hear from you, but I won't forget it.” His voice cracks and he squeezes Midorima's hand because he feels like it's the only thing grounding him. “I didn't realize how badly I needed to hear you say those words.” He huffs a breath of laughter and uses his free hand to wipe away a tear that spills down his cheek. “You sappy fucker,” he says, happy to find his sense of humor back in working order and laughing with a little more volume. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes, but loving you is the easiest thing I'll ever do.”

“You can't know that,” Midorima says, his own voice choked with true emotion.

“Yeah, I can, because I don't have to think about it. My mind is running at full speed on a constant, like this relentless, menacing _thing_ that never shuts up. In case you haven't noticed, I have this habit of overthinking everything, and I thought I'd gotten better—no, I _know_ that I've gotten better, but sometimes my anxiety rears its ugly head and I can't bring myself to think about anything but the worst-case scenario. With you though, I never question how I feel for you. Loving you just comes naturally.”

Midorima suddenly looks entirely too overwhelmed so Takao tugs him into a tight hug. “I know it's a lot for you to handle, especially after such a monumental confession, but I'm never going to stop telling you how important you are to me. You're just gonna have to deal with it.” Takao grudgingly backs away from him then, already missing the warmth of his body against his chest. “Are you ready to take this date back to my place?” Takao waggles his eyebrows. “I already have a terrible movie ready in our queue and there's a new ice cream flavor for us to try waiting in the freezer.”

“I'm not sure I'm up for either of those things, to be honest, but I am ready to go home.” Midorima exhales a soft breath that turns visible in the cold air.

Takao smiles wickedly and hooks his arm around Midorima's longer appendage. “I can think of a few ways to convince you.”

“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Midorima grouses. Then after a brief and curious pause, he says: “Well, enlighten me. What do you have planned?”

“That's easy. I'll just ask you a bunch of questions about sex and why you wanted to know if I thought about it. You always use objects within your reach as methods of distraction.”

“Takao!” Midorima shouts, his body immediately stringing into tension.

A few nearby couples glance in their direction and Takao sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from laughing. “Okay, fine. You don't have to talk about it now but it's going to happen eventually. Tonight has made me realize that you really are full of surprises, after all.”

Midorima smacks Takao on the back of the head. “Keep up this trend and I'll give you a different kind of surprise. And believe me, you won't like it.”

Takao feels electricity tiptoe down his spine and a dark sort of pleasure slip through his veins. “Oh, Shin-chan, I think you'd be quite _surprised_ to find out what sort of things I'd make an exception for.”

Midorima says nothing as they slip out into a lower level of the night but his grip around Takao's arm overrides the need for words.


	27. Guiding Light

Takao brushes off the conversation they had at Tokyo City View—or at least, he tries to—but for weeks it's a niggling memory scratching at the back of his mind. He tries to blame it on hormones, which is likely part of the problem and can't be entirely ruled out, but Takao thinks it's more than that.

He tries not to chase rationality but when his brain decides to play a game of tag, he can't outpace his thoughts. It stands to reason that the more you try to run from a specific train of thought, the more you're going to think about it. And while this might be the unvarnished truth of the matter, Takao isn't satisfied—he's singing the same old song, and he would rather party with his demons and dance in the dark than throw light on his sullied mentality.

He promises that he'll stop focusing on the unchaste things that he's been playing on repeat, but his mind is trapped between the wax and the needle, and you can't cross your heart without bleeding. He's tried.

Takao thinks back to when things first started to change within him. He thinks about when his body started to fill out and he became more muscular. He thinks about when his body hair, once light and sparse, became longer, thicker, and darker. He recalls the painful acne and the first day he noticed a strange smell emanating from his skin. He ruminates upon the embarrassment he felt when his voice would crack, then the relief he felt when it finally leveled out and deepened permanently.

He laughs out loud and to himself when he looks back on his youth, a period not so long ago, and realizes how much has changed in such a short amount of time.

He thinks, less fondly, about the mornings he would wake up with his underwear damp and the faint memory of a salacious dream weighing on his mind. He reflects on the unexplained mood swings, his low self-esteem; the emotional roller coaster of anger and depression, and the occasional numbness he felt on days that promised to put a dent in his timeline for the rest of his life. And though it seems like his thoughts have jumped from memory lane to a much less pleasant thoroughfare, Takao's reminiscence of what he's lived thus far imbues him with strength. It fills him with satisfaction because growing up isn't easy, and he knows how far he's come from the boy he used to be.

But that pleasure is short-lived because he thinks about how Midorima seemed to grow overnight. He remembers watching the soft planes of his body fill out and firm up, and the fullness of his face alter and take shape, all sharp angles and hardened in contour. He remembers observing his legs grow longer and his shoulders grow wider, and the innocent child-like quality of his voice transform into that of a man.

He recalls for the first time in years wanting to ask Midorima if he woke in the same uncomfortable state, if he had the same dreams Takao had, but he could never bring himself to do it. Lastly, he remembers being envious of Midorima's clean skin and naturally good smell. But no matter how badly he wanted to hate him for it, he never could.

That was around the time Takao had fallen in love with avoiding problems. He used to clench his teeth until they hurt and curl his hands into fists until his nails cut into his palms. It was around that same time when he started to understand that life was a multitudinous thing, and while he couldn't possibly identify with all of its sides, he knew what it meant to be in love. He loved Midorima more than anyone or anything he'd ever loved in his life, and simultaneously, it was the most agonizing and wonderful thing he'd experienced up to that point.

Now he's dealing with a new host of problems, all of which directly relate to the very boy who has (somewhat) unwittingly been the centerpiece of his world for over half of his life. He is drowning in thoughts of sex and obscene dreams. What's more, is that it's worse than when he reached puberty and it hit its peak and every day felt like a rodeo—when planning anything was as useless as trying to predict when he was going to pop a boner in the middle of class. _It's miserable! No one likes walking around with a concrete jungle inside of their pants._

Once winter break had ended and school resumed, it became almost impossible to find time to travel with Midorima. So instead, they stuck to local activities on the weekends, and when Valentine's Day rolled around, Takao jumped at the opportunity to shower Midorima in small, preposterous trinkets and boxes of overly sweet chocolate. Midorima said it was a useless holiday— _It's a consumerist-oriented and entirely foolish day. It's an arbitrary interpretation of romance. People shouldn't need a holiday to express how they feel for each othe_ r. Yet, come White Day, Takao woke to an assortment of items scattered throughout his room, including a stuffed bear almost as tall as Takao himself propped up next to him in bed. Takao still has no clue as to how Midorima managed to pull off sneaking into his room without interrupting his sleep.

Over spring break, they visit some of Tokyo's best-known parks and gardens. They drink tea in tea houses, eat picnics next to seawater ponds, and steal swift kisses when alone on walking trails and stone bridges. All of the time in between is spent training for their final year at Shūtoku. They've been focusing on team play with more reason—Midorima has even taken to subtly pressing Kuroko for tips—in conjunction with working on their skills as a two-person unit. Miyaji suggested that they focus more on their offensive plays, so over the past several weeks, they've been working on a successful pick and roll with a specialized technique.

Two days before the start of their third year, they go to a planetarium where they share a plush downy seat that quite literally resembles a cloud. Warm candle-like lighting complements the theater's black interior design, and high-resolution projectors paint an impression of the starry sky on a state-of-the-art dome screen. Takao holds Midorima's hand and plays with his fingers as stars pass over their heads and Midorima points at all of the constellations he knows, whispering their names into Takao's ear. It's so relaxing that with the soft harmony of music playing in the background, Takao has to fight to keep himself awake.

The next celebratory event is Midorima's birthday. Takao gets his mother to help him bake a cake, a Victoria sponge with strawberries and white chocolate cream. Midorima laughs when Takao tells him that he included the strawberries _Because fruit has health benefits_. They take two pieces to the park behind Takao's apartment complex and eat under the candy-colored sky. They talk about potential universities and Interhigh preliminaries, among many other things that have little or nothing to do with anything at all. They talk until the moon shines down on their makeshift seating, the picnic tables that have aged right along with them.

Takao threads his fingers through Midorima's longer digits, and when the other boy looks at him, Takao kisses him like the rusty creak of swings is telling him to. They kiss until the gravity between them shifts into weightlessness and their lips are dry and bitten red. A siren blares in the distance and Takao wonders if they know how close his heart is to beating out of his chest.

August barrels into their lives like a wild-animal parade putting distance between the plastic oceans and the burning forests. Takao holds his breath, and by the time he lets it out, he feels like he's running circles around bottle-rocket refugees. Time slows for no one despite being a man-made construct, and it's a miracle they're able to squeeze the Sendai Tanabata festival into their busy schedules. But somehow, they do; and it's just as memorable as last year's celebrations, if not more so. Though Takao might be a bit biased because watching Midorima get into a polite but heated argument with one of the performers had been one of this year's ultimate highlights.

They catch their train after a spectacular fireworks show, and Takao spends more time than necessary plucking bits of confetti out of Midorima's hair. They pass the first part of the trip talking about the Interhigh finals, then Midorima utilizes the remaining hour of the ride to read aloud from a book of short stories by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke.

Takao takes comfort in the heat that's developed where their bodies are pressed together and falls asleep to the sound of Midorima's voice. When Midorima gently shakes him awake, Takao wonders if this has become a customary thing.

They make it to the Interhigh finals with their new techniques and reformed determination, but not a single soul with eyes and basic knowledge of the sport could deny that this was Kise's time to shine. He stole the stage like he was battling the beasts of wild purgatory and his name was Magnum Opus.

When Kaijō triumphs, in the end, Kise falls to his knees and sobs loudly, having finally bested Aomine. Takao glances at Midorima, concern like a paper ring wrapped around his finger, but Midorima is smiling. “He'll be fine,” he says, not looking at Takao but staring at the ball of sunshine in the center of the court. And Takao can tell by the tone of his voice that he's no longer hung up on Shūtoku's loss; he's proud of Kise's success.

And when Aomine offers his hand to pick Kise up off the floor and the yellow-haired boy nearly jumps into his arms, Takao and Midorima share a look of unspoken understanding.

Subsequently, they spend every day preparing for the Winter Cup. Midorima teaches Takao how to shoot, and after the leaves have grown tired of their respective trees and taken flight, Takao has mastered the craft.

For Takao's birthday, they take the Tokyo Water Bus to Odaiba and visit Palette Town. They spend the first few hours perusing all three levels of the Venus Fort shopping mall. When Takao complains about being hungry, they walk back down to the mall's second floor and stop in at Chun Shui Tang for a late lunch. They order pearl milk tea and braised beef noodles while making up stories about the lives of the others in the restaurant—or more appropriately, Takao provides the stories and Midorima endlessly shoots down his outrageous theories.

With full stomachs and the backdrop of idle chatter, they visit Mega Web next. Midorima immediately takes an interest in Toyota's future prototypes while Takao's attention strays to the History Garage.

They head back outside when it's finally dark enough for the LED lights and kaleidoscopic patterns of Palette Town's Ferris wheel, Daikanransha to be seen. After they purchase their tickets they join the queue of other waiting patrons. Once at the front of the line, Takao manages to snag a completely transparent gondola, and while he loves the thrill of it, it comes with the bonus of Midorima sitting closer to him than he usually would.

Midorima is first to take Takao's hand this time, his grip tightening as they slowly rise further away from the ground. When they finally reach the ride's highest point, Takao loses himself in the magnificent view. He can tell that Midorima isn't entirely comfortable being this far from solid ground but even he can't help but admire the clear view of the Rainbow Bridge, Tokyo Tower, the lights on the water, and all the pinpricks of illumination in between.

Takao thinks that the perspective at the apogee is truly the cherry on the top of today's adventure.

“It really is beautiful,” Takao says. “If we ever get a chance to travel, we should ride every Ferris wheel we come across. That way, we can get the best view of every place we visit.”

“Do you know that millions of bacteria live on amusement park rides? Do you know how many people have sat here before us? People throw up on rides, Takao! I should have brought disinfectant wipes.”

Takao chuckles. “You should hope someone threw up in here. It's the only time these things get sanitized.”

Midorima's entire body stiffens and Takao can't quash the loud laugh that echoes around the compartment before it leaves his mouth. “I'm just messing with you, Shin-chan.”

“We'll see if you're still making jokes when you catch an infectious disease.”

Takao rubs his thumb over the back of Midorima's hand. “As long as you'll be there to take care of me, I'll still be working for your smile.”

“Shut up, Takao,” Midorima mutters.

Takao smiles and looks back out the gondola's glass side. He swallows when the ride shifts and the motion gives way to that familiar stomach-dropping levity. He knows that the pleasurable swoop is customary as the ride begins again but what's stirring in the low of his belly has nothing to do with cheap thrills and everything to do with the thoughts running through his head.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and forces his thumb to stillness against the back of Midorima's hand. The tape beneath his skin is smooth but it lacks a certain uniformity, and Takao can't help but wonder what that kind of friction would feel like in less platonic situations.

“Shit,” Takao whispers unwittingly.

“Takao?” Midorima questions softly. No answer. “Takao?” he asks, a little louder.

“Hm? What?” Takao visibly starts.

“Is something wrong?”

“What could possibly be wrong? I'm having the time of my life.” Takao flashes Midorima a wide smile that he hopes is convincing enough because truthfully, something _is_ wrong, and if that something gets any worse, he's going to have a very visible problem.

And that, simply cannot happen.

Somehow, Takao manages to keep his hormones at bay up to and throughout the week of the Winter Cup. Some days are worse than others but the full-bodied exhaustion helps. Practice is almost punishing and Takao thinks for the first time since he joined the team that he's in over his head.

He learns quickly, however, that sometimes it takes drowning to breach the surface.

Takao and Midorima very nearly replay last year's Christmas with the exception that they don't bother to leave Takao's apartment. They watch a holiday special with Takao's family after a sizable chicken dinner. They eat dessert when the special ends, then wander off to spend time alone in Takao's room. Midorima offers to give Takao a leg massage and Takao thinks that the proposal sounds like paradise but he can't risk losing control of what he's fought so hard to keep in check. He politely declines, proclaiming a bloated belly from too much Christmas cake, and continuously runs his fingers through Midorima's hair instead.

Shūtoku plays SenshinkanHighafter Christmas, and while there's no denying that they've reclaimed their place among the Three Kings of Tokyo, they're no match for Shūtoku's dogged persistence and unflagging perseverance. The game ends 112-78, allowing Shūtoku to climb the rungs of the ladder toward victory.

Due to Rakuzan's reputation and recruitment prowess, not to mention Akashi's leadership skills, they make it to the quarter-finals of the Winter Cup. Takao delights in being a thorn in Akashi's side and ultimately, his self-discipline and determination trump Akashi's iron-will. Rakuzan falls to Shūtoku, and while Midorima and Akashi have mended the cracks in their history, Takao is more than happy to steal Akashi's crown.

It's not easy to look at the person who utilized the four bodies to hurt Midorima in one of the worst ways possible; though Takao is trying because Midorima's forgiven him and he wants Takao to do the same.

They almost lose to Kaijō in the semi-finals because Kise is still up in flames, burning as hot and bright as anthracite coal. The match is taxing and has an almost debilitating effect on the newest recruits but Midorima and Takao are the glue that brings the team back together. They scrape by with one of Midorima's incredible full-court shots bringing the final score to 104-101.

Takao is halfway through Shūtoku's match against Tōō before he fully realizes that this is the game that decides it all. They made it to the finals and now isn't the time to be digesting this information; nonetheless, he's standing at the center of the court smiling like an idiot. Midorima claps him on the back and it's enough to rouse him from his thoughts, but his heart is hammering a little more than it was several minutes ago and he can't get it to calm down.

Takao doesn't think for the rest of the match. He works on autopilot and lets Midorima be his guiding light. He does well independently, making shots that he couldn't have dreamed of making six months ago—but it's his partnership with Midorima and the synergy between their movements that puts them on a different level from the rest. He refuses to leave this match with his head hung, and when he looks at all of the familiar faces in the audience, the cameras flashing in concert with the deafening roar of cheers, he realizes that he won't have to.

When they win, Midorima looks at Takao with shining eyes and cheeks flushed with elation. It's as if time stands still for a moment, then everything jumps forward in a violent shift of motion and Takao is leaping into his arms. He doesn't care about the way his limbs burn or the notable amount of sweat soaking through his uniform. He doesn't care about the tears gliding down his cheeks or the way he's shamelessly burying his face in Midorima's shoulder.

Every ounce of pain and pleasure they've put into training, all of the years they braved the rocky waters of hardship and success, everything they've put into this one potential moment—the fulfillment of their dreams and the fruition of their hard work, has finally come.

Takao knows that he's going to need some time to fully digest the fruits of their success, and while it's a burden he's more than willing to shoulder, he needs to stop crying first.


	28. Paper In The Wind

Once again, it's the start of a new year.

Takao is staring up at the ceiling, sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes. His blankets are thrown in careless bundles around his bed and there's a triangle of sunlight warming his bare ankle. His skin is too-warm and his clammy cotton sheets feel uncomfortable against the exposed parts of his sweat-damp skin. His stomach rumbles in a tangible response to his mind's demand for sustenance but despite the gnawing hunger, he can't bring himself to get out of bed.

He's had three nights to catch up on sleep since Shūtoku breached the surface of rivalry with inexorable power that burst the tides of victory—three nights that might as well have been three hours for the utter exhaustion still coursing through his body like post-viral fatigue. He's overcome with joy every time he recalls their success, but even the slow drag of a smile seems like too much work.

He fumbles for his phone when he feels it vibrate beneath his pillow. He doesn't remember turning the volume off, but to be fair, he doesn't remember much about what he did before he fell asleep. When he finally feels the cool face of the device, he draws it out into view. He flounders for the home screen button but the phone slips from his fingers and hits him square in the face. He emits a noise of pained defeat and pushes himself up against his pillows just enough to rouse his brain into a state of semi-awareness.

Takao narrows his eyes at the screen but before he can read the first line of a text message from Midorima, his phone rings. He answers the call and switches on speakerphone, clearing his throat in the process.

“Mornin', Shin-chan,” he says, lethargy scratching against the undertone of his voice. “What can I do you for?”

“Takao, are you still in bed? It's nearly noon. Are you sick? Do you need me to come over?”

“I appreciate your concern, baby, but you're throwing way too much enthusiasm my way for a man who's still trying to figure out how his limbs work.”

“It's unhealthy to sleep so late into the day, Takao.”

“Says the man who made himself late for school because he forgot to put his glasses on with his right hand. Anyway, I promise not to make a habit out of it.” Takao doesn't bother fighting a yawn and stretches his arms toward the ceiling. “I haven't had a chance to read your message, which I'm guessing is why you're calling me. What's up?”

“I wanted to invite you to Kuroko's surprise birthday party. I'm allowed to...” Takao hears Midorima's voice catch in his throat and he waits in polite silence as he works it loose again. “I believe his team is holding it on the weekend of his birthday and since we don't have practice on Saturday's anymore–”

“You're rambling, baby.” Takao swings his legs over the edge of his bed. “Are you asking me to go as your plus-one?”

“He's not getting married, Takao.”

“You're still allowed to bring a _date_ and you're choosing me. I haven't been this flattered since nineteen-aught-six.”

Midorima's breath is so loud against the speaker that Takao thinks he can feel it brush his cheek. “I'm allowed to bring a friend and now that I think of it, I have no idea why I called you first.”

Takao laughs loudly. “Because all of your other friends have already been invited. Besides,” –Takao walks over to his closet– “who else would you consider? If I'm in your head as much as you're in mine, there shouldn't be room for much else.”

“I have a much healthier relationship with my brain than you do, Takao. Now, I'm coming over. I'm not interested in spending the first day of the new year alone and I'm most regrettably craving your soufflé pancakes.”

Takao grabs a shirt out of his hamper and sniffs it before throwing it back into his closet with distaste. “You're such a gentleman...waking me from my slumber and demanding I cook for you. I need my beauty sleep, you know. If you want me to be a domesticated lady for you, you're going to have to make some allowances,” Takao says, his voice rising an octave higher than usual.

“I don't know how many times I have to tell you that being a woman doesn't suit you. Kuroko's birthday is on the 31st. Mark it down so you don't forget. And make sure to put on something clean. If it's in your hamper, it's not to be worn again until it's been washed. I'm not spending the day with you if you smell like an old man.”

Takao chucks the shirt he's holding into his hamper. “You're so bossy lately, Shin-chan. It's kind of hot.”

Midorima sputters on the line and Takao can hear him fumbling his phone before ending the call.

_Let him never change_ , he thinks.

Once dressed, Takao begins working on the pancakes. Though, unfortunately, two minutes into mixing the first set of ingredients, he has to retreat to his room to change into a clean shirt because he knows Midorima won't approve of the milk and melted butter spattering the fabric. When he returns to the kitchen, he resumes where he left off, reading his mother's recipe like he's trying to keep a promise. He works with the same level of caution he does when in the science lab, and while it wars with his short attention span, he's able to throw cold water on his hyperactivity for long enough to produce a perfect mountain of thick, fluffy pancakes.

Midorima's usual sitcom-timing is as dependable as ever; so when he enters the kitchen, Takao is putting the final touches on their pancakes.

“All right, Shin-chan—I hate to disappoint you but we're all out of superfood powder. I've got butter, syrup, whipped cream, blueberries, and powdered sugar readily available though. Pick your poison.”

“You made them,” Midorima says, ogling the stack of golden brown pancakes from over Takao's shoulder.

“Of course I did. How else am I supposed to satisfy an obsessively compulsed, superstitious, Oha Asa fixated tsundere? If I don't appeal to your demands, you might grow tired of me and run off to date one of your other love interests.”

“You're joking, right?” Midorima inquires, and while there's sarcasm in his tone, it's obvious that he's truly asking.

“Yes, Shin-chan. I'm joking. Now hurry up and decide what you want. These taste like shit when they get cold.” Takao adds a mountain of whipped cream to the butter and syrup already spilling over his stacked brunch. Then, to appease Midorima, he tosses a handful of blueberries onto his plate.

“So, why the surprise party anyway?” he asks, leaving Midorima to his own devices as he shuffles over to the dining table in the neighboring room. “It seems like it'd be hard to surprise that guy.” He sets his plate down and climbs onto a chair, one leg tucked beneath his bottom. “I bet he's a real badass in haunted houses. He's probably more successful in scaring the employees than they are him.”

Midorima enters the room and joins Takao at the table. He sets down the glass of orange juice that he poured himself, and Takao notices that he's chosen a healthy amount of powdered sugar and blueberries for his pancakes. “I don't know much about that. I do recall one time at Teikō when we stayed at a particularly strange inn. Aomine was nearly out of his skin by the end of the first night and Kise wasn't too far behind. I'm not entirely convinced that they didn't share a futon.”

“What made it so strange?” Takao asks around a bite of food.

“It was an old building. There were a lot of strange sounds, shadows that played on the walls in an eerie manner...the kinds of things that are naturally haunting without intent. The floorboards groaned in a way that sounded spectral. When the caretakers ran water on the lower floor the pipes rattled and hissed. It was the kind of building that made your imagination run wild even if you convinced yourself that it was exempt from otherworldly spirits. By the end of the trip, Murasakibara, Kise, and Aomine were in such a squabble over whether it was a banshee, a poltergeist, or a wraith making all the noise that they didn't speak for the whole ride home.”

“Sounds like you're speaking from personal experience,” Takao says, licking a drop of sticky syrup off of his thumb. “About the convincing yourself part, I mean.”

Midorima takes a bite and chews it thoroughly. He swallows every bit of pancake before continuing. “The point that I was going to make, Takao, is that Kuroko was unfazed by these curious events. Though, as far as I understand it, haunted houses are on a much different level.” He takes a sip of orange juice and Takao watches his mouth pull into a thin line. “I have never been to one myself. I have no interest in people jumping out at me or shouting in my face to alter my heart-rate.”

Takao laughs and shovels another mouthful of sweet pancake past his lips. “That's only half of it. Be honest, Shin-chan. You'd be scared shitless. Both of the haunt and the fact that some stranger might touch you.” Takao drags the back of his hand across his mouth. “I can just picture a clown or a ghost jumping out at you and you screaming _nanodayo_!” Takao continues to chuckle and when he meets Midorima's eye, he only laughs harder at the disapproving look he finds on his face. “What? Tell me that I'm wrong!”

“You're wrong,” Midorima mutters sourly.

Takao looks over at Midorima through the dark smudge of his lashes and smiles. “I'm not but okay. I'll let you have this one.” He slides his tongue across his lips and presses them together before releasing the pressure to form an audible pop. “So, you never answered my other question. Is there a reason for the surprise or are we just feeling mutually _surrep_ titious?” Takao lets a drop of syrup fall from his next bite and raises his eyebrows a bit too proudly.

Midorima sighs. “It has something to do with Kagami flying in. I don't know more than that.”

“That guy just can't settle, can he?” Takao steals a swig of Midorima's orange juice, much to the teen's disdain. “Is he planning on staying? Eh, you probably don't know. I remember the first time you met and he wrote his name on your hand. I'll never forget your expression! I couldn't tell if you were gonna punch him in the mouth or kiss him on the lips!”

Midorima chokes on his next swallow and Takao leaps from his chair to pat him on the back. When Midorima finally levels his breathing, he's red in the face and his eyes are brimming with tears. “Takao! This is why we still have so many trust issues.”

Takao guffaws and slides his hand up to the nape of Midorima's neck. “I swear on Oha Asa that you can trust me where it counts.”

“You don't even watch Oha Asa, Takao. That hardly counts for much.”

“Hey! I watch it sometimes! Besides,” –he presses a sugary kiss to Midorima's cheek– “I know that it's important to you, and that alone is too much to stake for me to lie. You can trust me.”

Midorima flashes Takao a warning glance but returns to his half-eaten lunch. “If that's true, then I _trust_ that you've been preparing yourself for our entrance exams.”

“I don't think I like your tone, Shin-chan. It's like you're already _accusing_ me of not preparing without even hearing my answer.”

After a brief pause, Midorima says, “ _Well_?”

“Well, what?” Takao returns to his chair but keeps his eyes focused on a scrape on the tabletop.

“What's your answer?”

Takao worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “I have...”

Midorima exhales a winded sigh and rubs his forehead before pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Takao, the upcoming weeks are going to be spent on preparatory training for our exams—which start at the end of _this_ _month_.” Midorima looks at Takao pointedly. “University applications are available come mid-May. If you don't start studying, how do you expect to get into Tōdai? One of my lucky pencils isn't going to be enough to earn you a letter of acceptance.”

“I know that. Wait a minute, I know we talked about it but you decided on UTokyo for sure? What happened to Kyōdai?”

Midorima finishes his last bite of food and dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Takao watches him and thinks: _This guy stops to consider everything, big or small—it's no wonder that he's always prepared._ Midorimafinishes all but a quarter of the orange juice in his glass before giving the rest to Takao.

“The University of Tokyo ranks higher globally and their Faculty of Medicine appeals to me more than Kyoto's. I'm particularly interested in their Surgical Sciences course. I also looked into their nursing program and I think it suits you. That being said, I will not do your homework for you.” He looks at Takao seriously, his features set on hard lines and an expression of staidness. “You need to be sure that this is what you want. This—what we have is important to me, too, but we went to different schools once before and we came out all right in the end. I'm sure we would manage if you wanted to–”

“Shin-chan,” Takao interrupts and places his hand over Midorima's. “Thank you, and I know. I _know_ that this is a huge decision. But I would follow you to the ends of the earth if it meant not being apart from you again. Hearing that out loud is probably terrifying and it makes me sound like a bit of a stalker” –Midorima huffs a small breath of laughter– “but I can't do it again. I can't spend another however many years it takes for you to finish your degree being away from you. Not to mention, the twenty years of residency you're going to have to complete.”

Midorima smiles softly. “It's typically three to eight years of surgical residency at a hospital, Takao. I'll likely undergo four years of undergraduate study, then I'll hopefully move on to four years of medical school. Of course, this is just a basic outline. Rumor has it that there is no foolproof blueprint when it comes to university. It's a rough sketch, a work in progress, at best. Like most things in life, even the best-laid plans have a habit of changing. I will work hard to excel and try my best to succeed. The rest will be up to fate.”

Takao rubs his lips together before biting the inside of his cheek. He can feel something inside of him shifting, growing, _building_. It's a strange sensation, one that feels like it's been living within him all along; a neolithic statue set apart from the markers in his gravestone chest. But it also feels new, polished, and restored like something reborn; a choice between two widely different kinds of repression. And while he doesn't wholly understand the emotion it plants in him, he lets it take root because he knows that it's something he needs to move forward.

“I can live with that, I think. But I don't want that to be us—I don't think I can live with _us_ changing. Not like that anyway. I get that we're two opposites, we always have been—night and day, the wind and sea, fire and water, whatever. But I want to grow _with_ you, not away from you. I think that going to different schools might allow for that to happen and I—”

Midorima turns his hand over and laces their fingers together. “Takao, I understand. I just want you to be sure about this. I would never want to be a thorn in the side of your future, if you will. I want you to be happy and if that means being with me, while I don't entirely understand it, I accept it.”

Takao bites down on his cheek harder than he means to and winces. “But that's never been an issue,” he says, and the laughter that follows is a bit too unnatural to be anything but artificial. It makes Midorima furrow his brow in the shape of an unspoken question. “You being in my life has always made sense to me. You have _always_ been the polestar of my world. I literally used to tell my parents that you were the light of my life.” Takao snorts laughter then and shakes his head. “That's painful to admit now because it's so fucking cheesy but it's true. The real question is, and always has been, _are you happy with me_?”

Midorima seems to think it over, and the lengthy pause causes Takao's heart to hiccup and his ears hum with white noise. At length, consideration and unease are succeeded by a show of normal neutrality, making it a little easier for Takao to breathe. Midorima lifts his head and looks at Takao face-to-face, his eyes soft and warm. “I have never been good with words, especially when it comes to my feelings, needless to say. You know that. That's one of the reasons why I would rather be moving than static. I don't like to focus on my thoughts for too long. It makes me uncomfortable.” Midorima swallows thickly and blinks as if he's trying to rid himself of tunnel vision. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to apologize to you. It can't have been easy to live in question for all of these years. I should have been more forthright. I should have tried harder to vocalize my feelings.”

“You don't owe me anything, Shin-chan. You might not be half as vocal as I am but you've always come through when I've needed you the most.” Takao squeezes Midorima's hand in a gesture of reassurance. “As long as you can live with my assumptions, which I like to think have gotten pretty accurate, I don't need you to go up against your feelings. We made it this far without your input, haven't we?” Takao needles.

The corner of Midorima's mouth twitches as if he's fighting a smile but he remains serious. “No, I need to be more upfront with you. It isn't fair for you to shoulder everything. It's _because_ I'm happy with you that I've allowed this to happen. I've gotten too comfortable in my silence, my acceptance. While you've been forced into making assumptions, I've been relying on the supposition that your guesswork is correct. I wouldn't want to have to live that way, so it's unacceptable to make it okay for you.”

Takao smiles because while he's been content with the way things have been, he certainly isn't going to refute Midorima's desire to be more candid with him. He slides out of his chair and stretches. “I'm always gonna be open to hearing sweet confessions from your pretty mouth.” Takao downs the rest of the orange juice and smacks his lips together. “Which brings me to my next question. Is this all some kind of preamble? A preface for a big confession? 'Cause I'll be honest, I'm all ears, baby. I've been waiting for you to green-light second base for a long time.”

Midorima's complexion, already flushed at the mention of his mouth, turns a deep crimson that contrasts poorly with his hair. Takao thinks about saying something about how he's lit him up like a Christmas tree but he decides to save it for another time because while Midorima looks embarrassed, he also looks brave.

“I wouldn't be opposed to furthering our relationship,” Midorima murmurs, tangling each word together like knotted lights on a string.

Takao's knees go weak and for all things considered, this is a clear indication that he's heard Midorima, but he can't convince himself that he's heard him _correctly_. He catches himself on the edge of the table and tries to realign his balance as naturally as possible. “Do you—are you sure that—what?” he stammers.

Midorima gracefully slides out of his seat and busies himself with his dirty dishes. “I think that if we're going to take this next step...” The heat flushing Midorima's cheeks spreads down the smooth column of his throat and up to the tips of his ears. “If we're going to go to college together and...if we... Oh for fuck's sake!” Midorima places the stack of dishes down with pointed irritation. “We have to know if this is going to work. I refuse to live in university housing. My parents started a college trust fund for me after I was born and I plan on using some of that money to buy something more habitable than a cesspool of bacteria and...and–” Midorima waves his hand to outplace his sudden lack of speech.

“You do know that you're going to have to live in a place where other people have lived before, right? I mean, unless you're planning on having something built from the ground up, and in that case, your parents are more loaded than I thought they were.”

Midorima repositions his glasses and sighs. “No, Takao, I'm not having something built—though it would be the most sanitary option,” he trails off briefly. “I'm going to be moving into a premium apartment with as few units as possible. I'll also be hiring a cleaning crew to have it sanitized. When the opportunity arises, I'm going to rent a home. I refuse to spend all of my years at university living in squalor.”

“Wait a minute. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm getting strong vibes that you're not intending on living in this premium housing alone. Does this mean that in the past, oh I don't know, _three minutes_ , you've admitted to wanting to have sex _and_ move in together? I think I need a drink.”

Midorima furrows his brow and Takao wants to laugh because he looks just this side of blowing a fuse. “Obviously, Takao. We're going to the same university, and not by coincidence. I naturally assumed that you would want to live together. Was I mistaken?”

“No,” Takao says so quickly the word almost gets lodged in his throat. “I wanted—I planned on rooming with you. I just didn't know that you had bigger plans. Come to think of it, you really were holding out on me.” Takao laughs reflexively, not wanting Midorima to misplace his intent. “We hadn't gotten this far. I didn't even know that you'd decided on a university until today. I also think you're being a little hasty in your housing hypotheses. Not to mention, _judgmental_. We are going to medical school. I'm pretty sure most of our fellow classmates aren't going to be slumming it.”

Midorima shakes his head to underscore the importance of his decision. “All the more reason to find alternative housing. Students who attend medical school are generally too occupied with schoolwork to remember the baser functions of living a sterile and healthy lifestyle. They'll be careless and more prone to poor decision-making. Both of my parents are in the medical field. I've heard horror stories, Takao!”

“All right, all right,” Takao says, laughing and holding up his hands in surrender. “I don't really care where we live. As long as we're together and you don't make me clean the baseboards with a toothbrush, I'll be just fine wherever we go. I'm just trying to toss you a _healthy_ reminder that if you start judging our classmates before you've even given them a chance, you're not going to have a good shot at making friends.”

“I'm not going to university to make friends, Takao.”

“Yeah, I know Mr. Antisocial. But I don't want you wasting all of your potential on paper and practice. If you're going to be a surgeon, you're going to be dealing with people. That means you need to work on your bedside manner. Though, we'll have plenty of time for that. I think we've ignored the elephant in the room long enough.”

“Which is?”

“Really, Shin-chan? If you start playing coy with me now, we're barreling over second base and diving headfirst into third, and I don't know if your delicate heart can handle that.”

“I'm sure that would be more relevant if I knew what any of that meant. However, I'm only familiar with the kind of bases used in baseball.” Midorima picks up the soiled remains of their brunch and carries them into the kitchen. “And I'm not playing coy, Takao.”

“Wait, seriously? So this is all baseless information to you?” Takao says, following close on his heels.

“You're too old to be making puns,” Midorima tells him. He puts the dishes in the sink and Takao hip checks him out of the way.

“Puns are as eternal as love and I will die on this hill, baby. Now, why don't you tell me what furthering our relationship means to you because I'm sure our views are drastically different.”

Midorima opens his mouth and closes it again, repeating this process several times before finally giving into speechlessness and leaving the room.

Takao doesn't bring it up again until the night of Kuroko's birthday party.

The surprise was as successful as everyone had hoped it would be, especially with the celebration being held at Kagami's apartment. Himuro, who made it just in time with Takao's surprisingly good directional skills, had played the whole thing off with the earmarks of a plausible talker. He was house-sitting for Kagami, so it was understandable that he'd have access to the building. And it was evident when Kagami crept out of his bedroom and segued into the middle of a conversation with Kiyoshi, that Kuroko didn't expect him to be there.

Everyone knew that they'd kept in contact, they spoke almost every day in fact—but Takao can't imagine giving up Midorima's physical presence for an immaterial form. Sure, they've had several electronic devices act as an intermediary between them, but at the end of the day, they know that they're not just phantom voices playing through a speaker or paroxysmal eruptions on a screen. It makes him feel bad for Seirin's history-making duo and he can't help but celebrate the moment when they reconvene with abundant enthusiasm.

Kuroko's expressions are about as easy to read as Midorima's on a good day; but there was no doubt, in the light that sparkled across his eyes and the smile that spread to warmth across his cheeks, that when he looked at Kagami, he was looking at the current love of his life.

Kagami, who had gotten his GED in the States, had come back to stay through Kuroko's graduation. _It was easier than getting the credits I needed to graduate_ , he told the room at large. But Takao thinks it has more to do with the fact that Kagami didn't want to be away from the little blue-haired shit that wears determination like a badge of honor any longer.

Regardless of any given reason, they fit well together—light and shadow, two pieces of a monochromatic puzzle. It makes Takao think of the proverb “absence makes the heart grow fonder” and how it never sat right with him. Furthermore, when he looks outside of his relationship and into the heart of another, the desire to uphold his claim grows stronger.

Kagami and Midorima bicker through their cake and vanilla ice cream, much to Takao's delight. Simultaneously, Murasakibara is telling Akashi and Himuro a story about... _garden gnomes_? _No, that can't be right_ , Takao decides. He shifts his gaze to where Kise is sitting between Aomine's feet, chatting happily to anyone who will listen to the details of his new modeling gig. Kasamatsu looks stuck at the crossroads between politeness and agitation, while Riko throws him a complementary question every now and then.

Takao tries to decode the unspoken messages Mitobe passes to Koganei to no avail—what he thought was a gesture for a blanket was apparently a request for something to drink. Izuki is quick to steal the seat next to him when Kiyoshi heads into Kagami's open-concept kitchen with Hyūga for more ice cream. He hands Takao one of his joke books and Takao barely gets through the first page before his laughter is bouncing off the walls like an untamed beast.

It isn't until Kagami and Aomine begin to arm wrestle that Midorima excuses himself to the bathroom. Takao counts down a minute in his head before he rises from his place on the floor and makes his way down the hall. He stands beside what he learns is the bathroom door and waits for it to open. When it does, he pushes himself inside, his palm pressed firmly against Midorima's chest.

“Takao! What are you–”

“Shh,” Takao hisses, closing and locking the door behind them. “Do you know how hard it's been to keep myself from latching onto you sooner? You look so fucking good in casual clothes and it's driving me crazy.” Takao spins them around and pushes Midorima up against the door. He slides his hands beneath the hems of his zip-up hoodie and soft t-shirt, exhaling a sigh of relief at the skin-to-skin contact. Kagami's apartment is more modern than some, meaning that it offers slightly more room than the average apartment, but it's not much.

“You've seen me in casual clothes many times before,” Midorima says. His tone is steady but Takao can feel the muscles beneath his fingers tense as he sucks a breath between his teeth.

“I didn't say this was a first, did I?” Takao teases, his voice purring up the back of his throat as he trails his hand higher. “If we were further along in our relationship, I'd be fucking you up against this door right now.”

Midorima's eyes go wide behind his lenses and they're blown so dark that when Takao looks up at him, he feels a part of himself die. He wants to do things that are battering his self-control like a ship being thrown at sea. He wants to push the limits of his self-preservation, and above all else, he wants to slap a big _fuck you_ down on discipline. He rakes his nails down Midorima's abdomen and slots himself in the empty space between Midorima's feet. “I know that I said I'd wait forever for you but you're killing me here, baby. I need you so fucking bad that–”

Midorima clamps his hand over Takao's mouth and shifts his gaze to the door. Where Takao has always excelled with sight, Midorima is a master of sound, and Takao is dead sure that he's heard something but he doesn't care. The thought of being caught only excites him further, so he sucks two of Midorima's fingers into his mouth, teeth scraping against the tape that binds them. Midorima's face darkens and Takao grins around the digits in his hungry aperture. He moans low enough that the sound can't be heard beyond the close bounds of their proximity and arches his back to grind himself against the taller boy's pelvis.

Midorima shudders and Takao almost chokes, not on the fingers in his mouth but the fact that Midorima is responding with a slow, reciprocating motion. He rolls his hips and pushes his fingers deeper, and Takao is thinking about dropping to his knees right there when someone knocks on the door.

Takao glances up at Midorima beneath the long, dark lines of his lashes and Midorima flashes him a silent warning that says: _Don't_. He removes his taped fingers from Takao's mouth and tugs his hoodie down with more force than strictly necessary. Takao flashes him a wicked grin because the action confirms that he wasn't imagining things when he felt something hard glance the low of his belly.

“That's what you get for wearing pants that put Perseus' ass to shame,” Takao teases. He opens the door then, letting Midorima stagger against the loss of purchase as he steps out into the hallway. A part of him wants to be greeted by Akashi or Himuro, or even Momoi—someone who wouldn't be fooled by a flimsy excuse—but it's Furihata who darts away from the door to offer up enough room for Takao to get around him.

“Everything okay?” Furihata asks, his forehead wrinkled in concern when Midorima hurries out of the bathroom and back into the cadence of idle chatter and boisterous talk.

“Yeah, we're good. Shin-chan doesn't do great around groups of people. Games are one thing but when in close quarters like this, he gets real twitchy. Fortunately, I'm here for moral support!” Takao claps Furihata on the shoulder. “Thanks for asking. It's all yours, buddy.”

Midorima won't meet Takao's eye when he reenters the brightly lit living area, and when he scolds Murasakibara for reaching across him to swipe his finger through the frosting on Himuro's cake, it's with more heat than what usually frequents his tone. Takao leans against the back of Kagami's couch and tries to match the pout on Midorima's face when Kuroko snaps a picture. The room freezes momentarily, still limbs and halted conversation for smiles and an excited bark from Nigou. Once the shutter sounds and Kuroko gives the clear, the party returns to life with the motion of bustling limbs, full volume communication, and one excited dog.

Just as he's about to move, Takao can't help but hear Hyūga mutter a derogatory remark about Rakuzan's (former) Mibuchi. Izuki issues no reply, and if Takao can read him at all, he looks a bit uncomfortable. Takao doesn't think before he acts but he feels no remorse after he _accidentally_ elbows Hyūga in the back and the head. He issues an apology that sounds as genuine as the anger flaring in his chest, then makes his way over to the opposite side of the coffee table.

The hardest edges of Midorima's expression soften when Takao sits down slightly behind him. Himuro glances over his shoulder and offers Takao a polite smile before giving up his seat in favor of sitting closer to Murasakibara. Takao opens his mouth, a verbal expression of gratitude ready on his tongue when an excited squeal bleeds through the room. It comes from the balcony and everyone turns to track the source of the sound.

They find Riko perched on Kiyoshi's shoulders, pointing out toward the city lights. It seems commonplace enough that no one from Seirin further acknowledges the scene. Aomine, however, is trying to toss a venomous Momoi over his shoulder. When he succeeds, Momoi's cheeks are puffed up like a child's and her face is flushed pink. She beats her fists against his back as he carries her out onto the balcony, and it's only thanks to Momoi's keen foresight that she ducks in time to avoid hitting her head on the doorframe. Kise trots outside after them, and for some reason unbeknownst to Takao, Murasakibara looks slightly irritated.

“Ridiculous,” Midorima utters, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh come on, Shin-chan. You don't think it's cute? Not even a little bit?” Takao nudges Midorima in the ribs with his elbow and flashes him a charming smile. “You wouldn't hoist me up on your shoulders if I asked you to?”

“Absolutely not,” is Midorima's response, and while the blush on his cheeks is hardly noticeable, Takao sees it.

Takao knocks his knee against Midorima's leg and laughs. “You're so mean to me, Shin-chan. I don't know why we're friends at all.”

The evening continues with the fanfare of a festival and everyone appears to be having a good time, save for maybe Hyūga whose eyes burn with jealousy every time Kiyoshi stands too close to Riko. Despite this minor one-sided discrepancy between friends, everyone has taken to relaxing with full bellies and refreshments.

Kawahara and Fukuda are huddled together in the corner, working on a magazine crossword that's been scribbled on one time too many. Whereas, Akashi's marked a culminating point in history by getting more than a splintered sentence out of Furihata.

A patchwork of various news is being shared between bodies, most of which pertains to chosen universities, upcoming living arrangements, and current goings-on for those who have already started chasing half-lit futures. The atmosphere is gentle and genial, simple and free of the cold-sweat and animosity felt on the court. It lends a familial quality to the otherwise cacophonous space—Takao thinks it's a nice change of pace.

As soon as the noise equalizes somewhat, Tsuchida announces that he's planning on proposing to his girlfriend on the Togetsukyo Bridge at the end of this coming summer. Everyone applauds the big news and the short-haired boy bows his head in appreciation, pink dusting his cheeks.

After graciously allowing enough time to pass so that he doesn't encroach on Tsuchida's news, Kagami clears his throat and multiple sets of eyes turn to focus on him. He tugs at the collar of his long-sleeved t-shirt and swallows nervously.

“I...um...I have an announcement to make, too. When I was in America I ran into a player agent while playing streetball and they passed my name onto a couple of NBA officials. I'm going to be entering the NBA draft as an early entrant next year.”

The room swells with playful catcalls and whoops of joy, and one loud “You asshole!” from Aomine, whose legs are stretched across Kise's lap, laughing.

Kagami breaks into a toothy grin and thrusts his fist into the air in a token of triumph.

“All right, stop showboating, Taiga,” Himuro says, grinning. “You won't be the only one. I talked to Alex the other day and I'll be heading back to America, too. If things go well, we'll be playing each other again in a new set of colors.”

“Yeah, and we both know that if you get in, I won't even have to try,” Aomine teases Kagami, and Kise flicks him in the forehead. “Even if I change my mind and go full blue, I'm still gonna move to America just so I can arrest your ass.”

“You can't arrest someone just because you feel like it,” Midorima supplies flatly.

“I'm sure I could find a reason!” Aomine counters with much more enthusiasm.

“I think you both have equally valid points,” Akashi tacks on.

“I'll make sure that doesn't happen because I'll be leaving as well,” Kuroko interjects, now standing next to Kagami. “I'm going to continue to improve my basketball skills while I study abroad. Hopefully by the time Kagami-kun gets drafted” –he looks at Aomine specifically– “because I think he will, I'll have decided what I want to do.”

“You can't leave us, Kurokocchi!” Kise whines, sniffling and dabbing at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. Kasamatsu continues to skim through a basketball magazine as he feebly pats Kise on the shoulder in a halfhearted attempt to console him.

“Yeah, what the hell, Tetsu? You're gonna fly like twenty thousand kilometers to hang with this dud?” He jerks his thumb in Kagami's direction, and Kagami throws an empty cardboard popper at Aomine's head.

Murasakibara looks thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. “You're way off, Mine-chin. You have them flying closer to Argentina than the States.”

Himuro chuckles. “I will never understand how you retain the knowledge that you do, Atsushi.”

Murasakibara lifts his shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug before giving in to gravity and letting himself flop down against the floor with a dull thud. “Kaga-chin, get me a blanket. I'm spending the night.”

“Yeah, sure. Wait! Why?” Kagami blurts, glancing between Murasakibara and Himuro.

“Don't look at me!” Himuro responds. “Good luck moving him now, though.” He jabs Murasakibara with his toe and the purple-haired boy groans in irritation. Murasakibara reaches for the nearest makeshift pillow, which just so happens to be Kiyoshi's cardigan, and stuffs it under his head.

And as the hours grow later, the night carries on similarly, even as people begin to say their goodbyes, trickling off into the night in groups of two and three.

It's not until Midorima tugs on Takao's sleeve, interrupting his conversation with Kise, that Takao realizes how few people remain. He scans the room and sees that Aomine, Kuroko, and Kagami are now squeezed onto Kagami's couch. Akashi is sitting between Kuroko's feet, reading him something out of a book while Aomine and Kagami bicker about basketball shoes. Murasakibara is still taking up a good portion of the floor, but Kiyoshi's cardigan has been replaced with a proper pillow. Himuro is talking animatedly about something Takao can't quite make out throughout the time he spends twisting the longest pieces of Murasakibara's fringe into a half-decent braid.

“Are you ready to go?” Midorima asks, drawing his focus away from the people in the room and onto the one person most important to him.

“Kise! Get over here!” Aomine calls, and Takao has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at how closely Kise and Aomine's relationship resembles an obedient dog and its owner.

“Are you sure you want to leave?” Takao reaches for the hem of Midorima's hoodie and plays with the hard plastic stop at the bottom of his zipper. “It seems like a pretty decent night for some good old-fashioned closure.”

Midorima smiles softly, the first signs of sleepiness touching the clouds in the whites of his eyes. “I'm sure.” He looks over his shoulder at the lingering crowd of (mostly) rainbow-colored heads. Takao watches the soft of his mouth curve a little higher. “I think we have all the closure we need.” He looks back at Takao and the stars in his eyes slowly fizzle out, burned black by the touch of something so ominous Takao can't read it for what it is. “You and I, however, need to have a private conversation.”

“I hear the bathroom is a surprisingly good place to hold a confab, want to give it a shot?”

“Takao!” Midorima shouts.

Takao narrowly avoids contact when Midorima swats at him like a fly. He cackles madly and charges across the room to gather up their belongings and start issuing his goodbyes.

Once they're dressed for the chilly night and finally outside, Takao inhales a deep breath of fresh air. The crisp breeze that enters his lungs fills him up, and he's so happy that he swears the stars in the sky are running like waterfalls.

“Why did you choose tonight to pull a stunt like that? You have the worst timing, Takao. What if one of our friends found out?”

“You used the f word!” Takao exclaims, jumping over a crack in the pavement. Midorima gives him a withering glare and Takao submits, choking down his amusement. “You want the honest answer?”

“Naturally.” Midorima avoids the cracks in the sidewalk and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Sometimes, when I look at you, I want you so fucking bad that it hurts. I've been fighting to behave myself for so long that obtaining a modicum of restraint seemed impossible at that moment. I'd say I'm starting to have poor impulse control.” He stops walking and turns to face Midorima as the cold closes in. “If it had been up to me, things wouldn't have stopped there.” He slowly drags his gaze down Midorima's body, head to toe. “But who could blame me at this point?”

Midorima looks over to the dark side of the street and Takao watches the shadows fade away as if Midorima is throwing color to the moon. “I think...I think I want to try...more, soon. If you want to.”

Takao gapes at Midorima like a fish out of water, a very confused, very shocked gill-bearing aquatic vertebrate. “If I want... Are you serious? Shin-chan, no offense, baby, but I don't know how you can be so stupid and so smart at the same time. It physically pains me how oblivious you can be sometimes. Of course I want to! How many confessions do you need from me before you realize that I'm _dying_ to get my everything on, around, or in you?”

“You're not dying, Takao,” Midorima says, muted from the volume of Takao's words.

“Maybe not right this second but if your train of thought takes us anywhere, I might be soon.”

Midorima ducks his head and walks over to where Takao parked the rickshaw. “Let's go home, Takao. I think we need to talk about...” Midorima coughs and sputters before finally shaking loose whatever fear has lodged itself in his throat. He climbs into the cart before piecing the rest of his suggestion together with a single word that makes Takao's head spin: _preparation_.


	29. A Thousand Kisses Deep

The first step regarding preparation does not go as planned. In fact, it goes about as well as their conversation _about_ preparedness had gone.

It wasn't for Midorima's lack of trying, _bless him_ —but he'd gone bright red with embarrassment a quarter of the way into their conversation and couldn't bring himself to continue. The slapdash exchange had ended on an agreement to make provisions on their own time and a promise that Midorima would bring by medical pamphlets on how to practice safe sex later in the week.

Takao does not expect _later_ to be just before midnight, three days before graduation, and without a trace of warning or any kind of indication that would allow for a preemptive response.

He had tried to go to bed early to stave off the worst of his boredom and his want to see Midorima—who had _made a point_ of saying that he had too much to catch up on to make it over. He thought sleep was going to happen, too; his eyes had grown heavy and blurry with weariness. His limbs slackened like all of the usual weight he carries had vanished for the ethereality of slumber. He started to drift off, his face tucked into his blankets and body warm as if touched by soft summer wind.

And that's when the circus of his mind came to life in a kaleidoscopic flash of lights and colors. His thoughts blared like music and his heart pulsed like the beat of dancers' feet on hard ground. His brain overflowed with a rush of images in the same way that a flood chokes out a motley flower border. Midorima was just another sideshow and Takao was trying not to fall.

But like a river dries without the rain, it comes to an end; and similar to a hypnic jerk, the feeling of taking the plunge reached him from within and jarred him to startling alertness.

Now, he's lying on his back, his cock hard and heavy and aching between his thighs. He drapes his arm across his forehead and exhales a frustrated sigh. He kicks his covers down to the foot of his bed, almost growling when his sheet stubbornly sticks to the fine sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. Once free of the confining threads, Takao drags his palm down the front of his boxers. He sucks a hiss of breath in between his teeth and closes his eyes, the sudden darkness bringing him face to face with that transitional phase of deliriousness and alleviation.

He lets the sensations prickling his skin pick him apart as he bucks up into his touch and expels the crudities of youth alongside a shuddering breath. He slides his legs up the bottom sheet, feeling the soft pull of calloused skin against the fabric as he bends his knees. He palms himself harder, with more intent, a harsh rasp of sound catching in the dark of his throat. He lets his knees fall apart, offering up more room to work with while he teases himself through the thin material of his worn-and-washed boxers. He can feel the beginnings of a damp spot spreading through the threadbare fabric, catching the barest hint of slick against his thumb. It sends his thoughts careening, has whatever semblance of the old dignity he has left jumping track because all he can think about is what Midorima's hand would feel like instead.

He chokes back a groan as he works his boxers down, the elastic waistband catching at his swollen cockhead. A sharp thunderstroke of lightning branches through his veins and turns his nerves to static. He trembles before he manages to wrap his hand around his thrumming hardness. The contact lends him a sense of relief, but the catch of friction when he twists his wrist is enough to tear a ragged vibration from his throat that sounds too much like the impatience he's feeling. He slides his thumb up his length, catching at his frenulum before he begins to work against the hot swell of the head. He sets his teeth against the bottom line of his mouth and bites down for the traction set against his sensitive skin. His touch slides over his glans with ease, and while the fluid slicking his skin proves to be more than he expected to find, it's not enough.

He abandons his cock just long enough that he can lick the salt-warmth of his palm. It doesn't offer much, but when he grasps the full straining heat of his length the slide comes a little easier. He whines despite himself and arches up into his touch, strokes up and over his cock in a tentative rhythm that spells promise. He thinks about the way Midorima's fingers would feel against his skin, the soft-wet of his slightly parted lips, the burn of his eyes pinned to the shift of long digits sliding over the too-hot swell of Takao's cock, the catch of his breathing...

Takao tightens his fingers around himself and bites down on the delicate tissue of his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. His mind is focused on the filthy things he'd be whispering in Midorima's ear, how the flush of response would be darkening the visible sweep of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, and the even sharper prominence of his hips. He thinks about sinking his teeth into what's his, manicured nails dragging across his chest, bodies intertwined; he's so caught up in his self-indulgence that he can almost make himself believe that he's not hopeless in how much he needs the familiar silhouette that's taken shape in his mind in reality.

Takao thinks that he should be ashamed of the amount of fluid beading at the tip of his cock. _Is it really okay to be thinking about him like this?_ He can hear something in his brain scratch against his conscience like feedback but the pleasure coursing through his veins purrs louder, spurs him on to win the struggle telling of his self-reproof.

And it's funny, almost ironic in a way, that Takao is getting off to thoughts of what he could be doing to Midorima when he has his cock buried in the heart of his fist—because, sure, thinking about Midorima doing this to him is almost enough to bring him to completion. However, it's the painful clarity of Midorima beneath him, skin flushed dark like a bruise from Takao telling him what to do that has electricity sparking up his spine. That's when he starts to hear his own breath gasping into time with the stroke of his fist. He squeezes his eyes shut hard and imagines his fingers working Midorima open, his cock hard between his thighs, and his pretty mouth begging Takao for _more_. The image becomes so clear, makes Takao so sensitive that even a puff of wind could propel him into climax.

Takao smothers a whine and digs his left heel into his mattress, body arching away from the soft resistance beneath him. This isn't the first time he's experienced the pleasures of self-indulgence, but when he begins to convulse under the swell of sensation and the rush of blood to his skin spreads to warmth upon the surface of his body, it's the fastest.

He moans louder than he should considering how thin his walls are and the fact that his parents are sleeping just down the hall; but it's too late to call it back because he's desperate, falling apart before he can fit another breath into his lungs. Wet heat spills over his fingers and spatters the low of his belly, and when he imagines it elsewhere—stippling Midorima's chest, dripping down his chin, slicking his untouched soft passage, wet and warm like silky dew, Takao almost cries.

His body is trembling and he can feel the slick on his skin turning cool enough to make him shiver. His breathing is labored and his heart is still reeling from the drop, trying to hark back to a comfortable pace. He lifts his arm despite the weight of fatigue tugging at his limbs and makes to run a hand through his hair when he remembers the sticky mess coating his fingers. He glances to his left, then his right, and when he finds nothing near enough to clean the emission from his skin, he presses his tongue flat against his palm, the tentative drag of soft, wet heat against his hand making him shudder.

_Fuck_ , he thinks, and while the word plays like a brass instrument in the safety of his head, and he thinks he might have formed the word at his lips, he knows that he hasn't succeeded in giving it voice. Which means the profane whisper he heard came from somewhere else.

Takao feels his heart begin to beat in patterns with the broken resonance bouncing around inside of his head like warning bells. There's no light spilling into his room from the hallway but now that he's heard Midorima's voice, made plain and distinct, he can clearly see the gap between his bedroom door and its frame before the soft click of it being pushed shut catches against the backdrop of the room. A strange sensation ensnares him, snags on the chords in his chest, and plucks at the space between his ribs. It feels like panic, arrests his arousal, and picks at his awareness until he's scrambling into uncoordinated motion.

Takao manages to pull his sheet over his lap before he tries to steal a glimpse at the shadow pressed up against his bedroom door. It's late and it's dark, and the only catch of light that spills across his floor hails from the thin splinter of moonlight pushing through his half-closed curtains. Still, his eyes have adjusted enough that he can see how pale Midorima's gone, how he no longer bears the rosy-warmth of life but leans closer to the resemblance of a chiseled statue built out of Italian marble thrust against the inky scrim of nightfall. He's motionless and silent, and his gaze is fixed on Takao but he's just _staring_ , unblinking, held as if in a dream with a dovelike quality shining through his dark eyes.

“So, um...do you want to tell me why you're here?” Takao breaks the silence, hating how shrill his voice sounds, how the heat on his face spreads to a thick layer of shame over the thin coat of his put-on confidence. “I...wasn't expecting you.” He curses the addendum as soon as it leaves his mouth because conversation is difficult enough without needless and obvious inclusion. If anything, it draws more attention to whatever it is that Midorima just witnessed.

Midorima clears his throat and takes a single step into the room but it's as if the sound and the motion come up against some unseen barrier because he immediately turns back into the shell of a mannequin.

“How did—it's late! You...you don't even like me being out past ten and now you're here—how did you get in?” Takao blurts. He gives Midorima a moment to answer, but when he doesn't, Takao wets his lips and forces a huff of laughter out of his throat. “I'm not gonna bite, Shin-chan. I'll admit that you surprised me, and if I were a snake you'd probably be on your way to the hospital, but I'm not and you're all good so—I'd just appreciate a little warning next time, especially if you plan on sticking around for the show.”

Midorima remains silent but Takao can hear his throat work on a swallow. The noise somehow makes the absence of sound even louder, and Takao is starting to feel real fear settle like lead in the low of his belly because he always turns to humor when things fumble too-far out of his reach and it's not working. He twists the sheet in his hands and worries his bottom lip too hard between his teeth. He can feel Midorima's eyes like a fresh brand on his skin, still hot and sore. The space between their bodies feels like a chasm that's increasing by the second, winks away from being too wide to be bridged. When Takao can't bear the silence anymore he says: “Fuck, Shin-chan, say _something_. You're driving me crazy here.”

“...I've had the keys to your apartment for the past three years...” is what Midorima finally settles on.

“Who gave you the keys?”

“...You did.”

Takao scoffs as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. He knows it to be true but he feels like no matter what he says or does, he's going to be fighting fire with fire. He's burning up from the inside out, standing so close to the heat that he's convinced himself that spontaneous combustion has become the most plausible outcome.

Takao lifts his head and looks at Midorima, who is watching him with unwavering attentiveness, making Takao flush to an almost painful degree. He chews at his lip, teeth cutting further into the delicate tissue as he tries to formulate some kind of response and contain himself at the same time. When he finally finds his voice, he asks: “Can we just pretend this never happened?”

Takao means to extinguish the flames licking at his heart, but if anything, he's only succeeded in throwing a single teardrop on the fire. What was meant to soothe the burn only triggered a powerful magnetic field that scorched his skin in the shape of a suggestion—containing this roiling sea of high energy and restlessness is impossible without Midorima's help.

Midorima seems to think it over for a moment, but no sooner than Takao's chest starts to constrict with a new wave of panic, Midorima's shaking his head. “I can't do that. I can't forget it because I _felt_ it. I liked watching you.”

Takao nearly chokes on what little moisture remains on his tongue. “You—you _what_?”

Midorima looks like he's walking in slow-motion, wading through a vat of molasses on shaky legs, but it doesn't matter because he's finally _moving_. “I could feel how much you wanted me. I wanted to say something but I couldn't bring myself to speak.”

Takao blinks at Midorima owlishly and tugs his sheet a little higher up his chest. “H-how much did you see?”

Takao feels Midorima's weight settle beside him on the bed and he's so near that he can feel the gentle ghost of his breath when he exhales. He smells like peppermint and Takao thinks he can taste his favorite brand of toothpaste when he whispers “Enough.” It doesn't offer much in the way of confession but it's all he says before he takes Takao's face in his hands and pulls him forward, just enough to fit their lips together.

Takao exhales a startled breath and shifts to meet him instantly, the crooked angle of the kiss righting itself as the warm press of their mouths goes firmer. And it's strange because this is far from their first kiss, but Takao is wholly convinced that he's waited half his life for this moment. It feels new and unfamiliar somehow, like the entire world has tilted on its axis and everything Takao has ever experienced in connection with how this felt has been morphed and recast.

It doesn't take long for Takao to return to his senses because his want for Midorima is stronger than any other emotion he's ever known. Midorima is pulling back before Takao is ready for it, and Takao chases after him because he's never felt this level of desperation before. He presses his fingers against the fabric of Midorima's shirt and turns his hand to a fist, crumbling the soft weave of cotton in his grip as if it's enough to keep him grounded.

“Don't,” Takao whispers, breathless and teeming with lust. “Don't leave me.”

“You're so stupid, Takao,” Midorima replies, his smooth lips brushing against the rougher pout of Takao's mouth. “I have no intention of leaving.”

Takao almost whimpers and he wonders what he looks like with his lips parted and his eyes wide and glazed with heat. His breath is coming in short pants, and if the fever he feels on his skin is anything to go by, he can only imagine how flushed his face is. But he doesn't want to think about the intricacies of his desperate appearance or the sensationalism of his heart's decay—because while he feels as though he'll expire if he doesn't give in to his selfish desires, he needs to focus on the boy who's shooting him down and doing him in with facile truth.

“No, that's not–” Takao groans in frustration and subtly tugs his boxers back into place before he climbs into Midorima's lap, his knees digging in against Midorima's hips and the bulk of his weight resting on the tops of his thighs. “I'm not just asking you to spend the night. I want more than that.”

Midorima's eyelashes shift behind the glinting obscurity of his lenses when he lifts his gaze to look Takao in the eye; a smudge of charcoal left in the image of sleepless nights and burned-out energy. Takao wants to reach up and run his fingers over the soft give of the many feather-soft hairs but Midorima's voice forces him to stillness.

“What led you to believe that my intentions are so innocent?” He presses a kiss to the bare line of Takao's throat, firm and insistent, teeth glancing at the protrusion of his clavicle as he shifts in an unspoken pursuit to taste the sweat leftover on Takao's skin. “I have come to reason with my own desires, Takao.”

Takao wishes that he could give up on trying to understand because it would be so much easier than attempting to parse through what Midorima's saying. His throat feels tight and his voice is raw when he speaks, deep and affectionate, but rough and vulnerable in a way he isn't used to hearing in his tone. “Are you telling me that you've–” But despite all of the vulgar things he's said in the past, he can't bring himself to ask the question that melts with the marrow in his bones. Instead, he focuses on the shape of Midorima's lips, swollen and bitten-red, the pink dusting his cheeks, the shadows swamping the overcast meadows of his half-lidded stare...

Takao involuntarily drops his hips because he's losing a war with gravity in every sense of the catchword. It takes him a brief moment to catch up, to comprehend that the pressure he's feeling isn't solely stimulated by exclusivity but by association instead. When the realization fully forms into understanding, Takao snaps his head up to meet Midorima's eyes.

“If you're asking me if I've practiced onanism, then the answer is yes...though I've never taken it quite so far as you did.”

Takao tries for laughter but the sound collapses on a winded breath instead. “I presume that you mean to say that you've jerked yourself off before.” The impact doesn't strike him for a moment, but when it does it falls on him like a ton of bricks. “ _Fuck_ , Shin-chan.” Takao reaches out to clutch at Midorima's shoulders at the same time Midorima grabs at his hip, his fingers digging in against the sharp angle of Takao's bone to pull his body in closer to his own. An acute hiss catches between Takao's teeth as he lowers himself down into grinding proximity and Midorima bucks up against him as if he can't help himself. Takao can feel Midorima's cock weighting against the fabric of his pants, and the friction is just enough through the thin fabric of his boxers that it punches a broken moan from his chest. “You're so fucking _hard_...” Takao whines, sounding almost as if he's in physical pain.

And the reckless impulsivity that's tangling itself up in urgency is only made worse with the way Midorima's looking at him, his eyes darker than muddy trenches and more heated than the glowing whiteness of a bone flashing to incandescence.

A feeling passes through Takao at the speed of light in the likeness of a memory—the imprint of what he felt the first time he'd realized that Midorima got hard because of him. But it's bigger now, and Takao is braver than he was back then. So he oscillates his hips as a test and his mouth waters from the delicious moan Midorima gives him in return. Takao shifts lower and Midorima tilts his head back _just so_ , kissing Takao with a complete lack of the technique he exhibited earlier as Takao grinds down harder against the swell of his want and indisputable need.

Takao slides a hand up the back of Midorima's neck to tangle his fingers in the yielding softness of his hair. He tugs Midorima's bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, firm but hurtless. Midorima parts his lips and Takao steals the granting access. He licks into Midorima's mouth, can taste Midorima's moan on his tongue when he undulates his hips and presses their cocks together. He can feel the tingle of mint against his lips, and the heat of Midorima's breath spilling over his tongue and down his throat when he gasps into the pleasure, and the pressure, and the savage want. Takao licks behind Midorima's teeth and tightens the hand weighted against the clean line of Midorima's scalp into a fist. Midorima moans so low and deep that Takao can feel the resonance of it purr against his chest and spread down the delicate curvature of his spine.

Midorima bucks his hips up in reactionary response and Takao draws back then, whispering too softly, but not for lack of trying, “Have you thought about doing this before?” Takao flicks his tongue out against the kiss-swollen wet of Midorima's mouth and groans. “Have you thought about us touching each other like this?”

Midorima struggles to offer up any kind of response, and Takao understands what he's feeling because it's really fucking hard to think when the leaking weight of their mutual arousal is begging for friction in the same sinister vein a match against gasoline threatens a spark. Midorima opts to bow his head in lieu of verbal response and slides his hand up the length of Takao's spine instead. The catch of his fingers against the fine sheen of sweat glinting in the moonlight makes Takao sigh, suddenly aware of how bare he is in comparison to Midorima.

Previously, Takao would have felt flustered in his present state, but with Midorima's fingers trailing up his vertebrae and across his shoulders, he can't help but want more. Midorima's hand is teasing like the shadows of a firm touch, like a ghost trying for contact but lacking the corporeal existence of true ability. Takao whines and lowers his free hand to the fingers splaying over his hip bone, pressing down in an unspoken plea. “I want your hands all over me, Shin-chan. Your hands were _made_ for touching—they drive me insane. They're so different from mine. I think about them all the time. I think about your long fingers wrapped around my cock, digging marks into my hips, pressed to the back of my throat, the scratch of tape and the smoothness of special treatment beneath...”

A splintered response melts in the back of Midorima's throat, and when he leans forward the exact distance it takes to plant a trail of kisses along the angle of Takao's jaw, Takao melts with it. He flexes his fingers against Midorima's hand and tilts his head back in surrender—it's an offering as much as an act of debauchery because Midorima's affection is growing less sweet by the minute, almost bruising in its force, as if he intends to mark the still winter-pale of Takao's skin with the print of teeth and lips instead of the words he can't quite speak.

Takao can feel Midorima's tongue sweep across his pulse and the drag of his lips over the juncture of his neck and shoulder before he sucks a patch of salty skin between the cool edges of his teeth. “Fuck,” Takao whispers, his voice cracking and fading into obscurity in the dark of his throat. He tugs at the hair trapped between his fingers like blades of fresh summer grass and Midorima bites down on the curve of his shoulder in a response triggered by pain and pleasure alike. “Do you like that, baby? I bet I could get you off like this.” Takao rolls his hips and feels the line of Midorima's cock twitch against the inside of his thigh. “You're doing so good, baby. I want you to mark me up, cover me in bruises, give me something to smile at in the mirror and touch myself to when I jerk off in the shower.”

Midorima's mouth slides off of Takao's shoulder but there's the lingering touch of saliva cooling on his skin. “Fuck, Takao,” Midorima purrs, and the sound of it could easily be confused as protest but Takao knows better. In fact, he knows a lot more than he's been letting on and he's starting to think that whoever thought up _there's no time like the present_ was on to something.

Takao ignores the ache of hypersensitivity and the thrumming need that's pulsing through his cock to carefully slide himself off of Midorima's lap. It's the hardest thing he's done all night, which is truly outstanding considering the dominoes that have fallen since Midorima made his presence known. Once standing with the promise that his knees won't betray him, he curls his hand around the base of his cock, squeezing hard enough to calm the rush of blood that's overturning the order of his self-control. He wants to come again, would sell his soul to feel Midorima's hand around his cock; but like every great reward, it comes with a price, and if good things come to those who wait—well, Takao thinks he can spare at least a few minutes.

Especially when he knows they're going to be as self-serving as the moon is bright.

Midorima breathes in slowly and looks up at Takao, confusion delineating the shadows on his face. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, and the consideration in his tone could break Takao's heart if he wasn't so pent up.

Takao reaches out to stroke the rosy softness of Midorima's cheek and smiles. “I'm more than okay, baby. But one of us already came, and unless you have something to tell me, I think it's only fair that you're next.”

“Oh,” is all Midorima manages. Though, Takao knows just by looking at the other boy that there's not a grain of opposition in his body.

For a fleeting moment, Takao's confidence wavers because while Midorima is sitting on his bed and he's standing, he's never felt so small before. He wonders if he's capable of pulling this off, of letting loose the prepotent urges he's kept caged since the day he first mulled over what it would feel like to fuck Midorima. Then, all the hesitation that cut through his backbone leaves him, and when he drops to his knees it's with more assurance than he's ever received.

“You know, you're funny, Shin-chan,” Takao begins, walking himself forward on his knees scarcely enough to force Midorima's feet into a wider stance. “I've been thinking about this a lot lately... I think it's fairly obvious that most people would consider you to be controlling, tenacious, polarizing, demanding, bossy–” Takao follows the line of Midorima's clothed calf up to the bend of his knee, the gentle scratch of fabric brushing against the callouses stippling his palm. “But the thing is, while some of that's true, I don't think that's what you want to be _here_ , in the bedroom.” Takao walks his fingers up Midorima's thigh, his gaze lifting slowly to glimpse at Midorima's expression. “As a matter of fact, I think people would probably be _shocked_ to find out the truth.”

Midorima swallows thickly, and whether it's by reason of the seductive lilt of Takao's tone or the fingers splaying over his thigh, Takao isn't sure, but it doesn't matter because Takao is shaping more than one piece into the puzzle he's spontaneously throwing together. Takao drags his tongue between the seam of his lips, deliberate and suggestive in a way that can only be conducive to what he's planning. Midorima's face turns to a ruddy countenance and his throat clicks before he can rasp a weak jumble of words into coherency.

“What's that—what are you referring to?”

Takao can feel the corner of his mouth lift into a crooked smile that _feels_ more arrogant than it should. “I'm _referring_ to the pull of the moon, the thrust of the sun, the _quintessence_ , so to speak, of our roles.” Takao slides his hand farther up until the tips of his fingers are ghosting the hard edge of Midorima's painfully clad cock.

“I don't follow–” Midorima says, his voice hitching higher and straining against the deepest recesses of his throat.

“And here I thought my poetic spirit would turn you on.” Takao clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth playfully and pretends at disappointment. “Fine, I'll give it to you straight.” He tips his head back and looks Midorima hard in the eye as if he can drive every filthy thought dirtying up his mind into the other boy's head. “You spend every day fighting for control, caught in a cycle of obsessions and compulsions and superstitions. But you don't want to be in control here. You want this to be neutral territory, the one gray area of your life where you don't have to hold the reins. I think you're tired of leading. You want praise, you get off on it. You want to hear that you're doing a good job while I fuck every nagging feeling and negative thought out of your head. You want a moment of freedom to forget about every trivial fucking detail that runs your life.”

Takao watches Midorima's expression alter and reshape, and he can almost see the way his blood shivers in his bones. Midorima nods eagerly when Takao moves his hand higher still, fingers teasing harder at the responsive press of Midorima's cock.

“What are you nodding for?” Takao asks, tilting his head to underscore the question. “Are you in agreement? Or is it that you want me to touch you?” Takao rubs his lips together and inhales a deep breath to steel himself against the want boiling beneath the topmost layers of his skin.

Midorima cards a hand through Takao's hair and exhales a shaky sigh. “Yes, I want you to touch me. Please.”

Takao chuckles and the sound shakes apart to a vibration of dangerous implication inside of his chest. “Of all the times for you to flaunt politeness...” Takao smirks and slides his palm up and over the hard line of Midorima's cock. “I wonder what you're going to think when I _really_ get my hands on you. When I'm watching you leak and spill slick over my fingers. Are you going to feel embarrassment? Shame? Or is the idea of being on display for me making you even harder?”

Midorima tugs at Takao's hair reflexively as Takao works the button of his pants free from its slit and begins tugging down his zip, the drag of metal teeth audible in a way Takao's never noticed before. “This is the hardest I've ever been in my life,” Midorima gasps into sound, a hiccup of breath catching along the tense line of his throat. “I don't think I'm going to have much space for thought at all.” His tone is even but his words are thick like he's just voiced a shameful confession, and they settle like a layer of heat in the space between Takao's thighs.

“You're so fucking hot, Shin-chan,” Takao hums. “Now lift your hips so I can get these pants off of you. If I don't get your cock in my mouth in the next five seconds, I think I'm going to die.”

Midorima lifts his hips obediently and it's obvious that he doesn't fully digest Takao's words until his pants are halfway down his thighs, because it's only then that he begins sputtering and choking on incoherency like he's taken too much air into his lungs at once. “Wh-what?”

Takao bows his head and presses his mouth flush against the damp stain discoloring the pattern of Midorima's boxer briefs. It's sticky and slick, and when Takao begins laving at the firm jut of undeniable arousal he can taste salt against the heat of his tongue. He moans and Midorima's hand tightens in his hair, pain dragging at the line of his scalp. Takao looks up, unembarrassed by the drool collecting at his lips, only to notice Midorima gazing down at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. He hums a distinct note of pleasure and Midorima's hips twitch in time to the cock pressing against Takao's lips.

Takao leans back and trails his fingers over the elastic clinging to Midorima's hips, his knuckles working beneath the hem of the other's shirt to glance the brawny build that speaks for years of hard work and unflagging practice. Midorima's abdomen flutters under his touch and Takao can feel tiny palpitations kick to life inside his chest. “Can I?” Takao asks, hoping that Midorima has enough mental acuity left to interpret the request.

Midorima can't accomplish more than a feeble nod but it's enough of a green light that Takao is encouraged to recommence his affections with Midorima's consent at his disposal. He tugs at the waistband of Midorima's underwear until his cock springs free, heavy and flushed and so fucking _wet_. Takao groans but the low and heavy sound dies as soon as he dives forward to take the head of Midorima's cock into his mouth straightaway.

Midorima swears and twists his hand in Takao's hair, whimpering when Takao flicks the tip of his tongue out against his weeping slit. Takao closes his eyes, briefly, and loses himself to the nebulium and the blazing stars behind them as the taste of Midorima's arousal fills his mouth.

“Fuck,” he says harshly as he pulls himself off of Midorima's length for breath. “You taste so fucking good.” He moistens his lips where they've dried and curls his hand around the base of Midorima's cock, stroking over him tentatively. “Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” And Takao is surprised that he's able to express what he's thinking at all because he's so hypnotized by the sight before him.

“I want your mouth on me,” Midorima says, his hand slipping free of Takao's unruly strands. He leans back on his elbows and purposely falls deeper into the shadows, and while Takao longs to see the flush held in his cheeks, he's too desperate to have Midorima back in his mouth, thick-heat weighting against his tongue.

“Seems like you and I have a common goal,” Takao taunts blithely. He pushes himself a little taller, his knees digging in against the hard resistance of the floor. He leans over the stiff reach of Midorima's cock and parts his lips, lets the drool that's collected in his mouth spill down its length. When the slick reaches his hand, Takao begins to stroke up over the aching heat of his cock, alternating between rough pulls and gentle caresses. “Though, it seems I should have added _greedy_ to that list of your qualities.”

“Shut up, Taka— _oh–_ ”

Takao promptly sucks Midorima's cockhead into his mouth in the interest of interruption and self-indulgence; notwithstanding his inexperience, he's mindful of his teeth as he starts working himself down on Midorima's length. It's not perfect and he's definitely going to need to hone his skills, but if what he's feeling at this moment is any indication of what lies down the pike, he knows that putting practice into effect won't be an issue.

Takao takes Midorima too far back into his throat, which makes him gag but he recovers quickly. There's too much saliva and Takao's jaw is starting to ache, but sucking off Midorima feels so right that Takao considers the inconvenience a blessing. There's one thing missing, however, and when Midorima shifts, Takao understands what it is he needs. He reaches out blindly, fumbling for Midorima's hand before lifting it to the top of his head, desperate for the return of long fingers weighting against the messy fall of his hair.

Midorima slides his hand through Takao's ink-dark strands and Takao moans around him, leaning into his touch as Midorima lets out a groan that lances through his heart like a shot to the chest. He reaches down to palm himself through his boxers but it's not satisfactory, and when he draws his cock out into the open air, Midorima senses the shift.

“Oh,” Midorima sighs, and he starts to relocate the weight in Takao's hair but Takao claps his free hand over his lover's larger appendage, holding it in place firmly. He lifts his gaze to the shadowed-dark of Midorima's face and applies pressure to his hand in an unspoken demand as he slowly works himself back down to the base of the cock that's pushing the boundaries of his mouth. Midorima looks like he wants to cry or beg or pray with every desperate shred of his being before he tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut as he guides Takao up and down his length by the hair tangled in his loose fist.

Takao thinks about what he'd be saying to Midorima if their situations were reversed, and just the thought of Midorima's mouth on him nearly tips him into the shuddering heat of his second orgasm. He grips the base of his cock as he slides the flat of his tongue along the underside of Midorima's shaft, slippery warmth sliding along a prominent vein. He squeezes his eyes shut in time with the clench of his fist and breathes harshly through his nose. He thinks about Midorima between the knobby edges of his knees, his nose brushing against the low of his abdomen as he swallows Takao's cock down like he's starving for it. He imagines Midorima's hand around his own cock, put on display, and left a whimpering, blushing mess under the significance of Takao's praise. He thinks about pinning Midorima down and making him come untouched, forced over the edge of orgasm with nothing more than Takao's voiced fantasies and verbal encouragement to guide him into freefall.

Midorima braces his hand against the back of Takao's skull, lowering him until Takao gags a little on the way, but he's learning how to make his throat slack; and he begins to jerk himself off in earnest, stroking from the base up, twisting his wrist once he reaches the sticky-slick head of his cock. He wants to laugh, though it's impossible to do with inch upon inch of explicit weight occupying his mouth, because Midorima is the one panting like he's chasing oxygen.

“Takao...”

Takao slides his mouth off of Midorima's cock and gasps himself into breathing. “Fuck, Shin-chan, I think you're going to kill me.”

Midorima leans higher up on his elbow and looks at Takao through fogged glasses, the tears collected along his long lashes the visible cause of the misty effect. “I'm sorry,” he says, voice breaking as if he's having trouble with the grips of reality.

“Don't apologize,” Takao issues, shaking his head as much as Midorima's hand will allow. “You're doing great, baby. Just relax.” Takao doesn't remember lowering his arm but he uses that hand to swipe his thumb across the dripping tip of Midorima's cock, making the other boy squirm beneath his touch. Takao emits a soft moan and slows the hand working over himself because he can feel the start of all-too-familiar sensations threatening to overwhelm him. As it stands, if not for his previous climax, he knows that he wouldn't have made it this far. “I want to make you come, baby...but I want you to talk to me. I want you to tell me what you think about when you're alone. Can you do that for me?”

Midorima groans then, like Takao's request is crossing some unseen line and into a form of torture. His face is so incarnadine in the blushing depths of eventide that Takao can't help but notice how hot his own body has become, or how damp his skin is with sweat that smells a little like the salt clinging to the weight of his tongue.

“I think about you...” Midorima tries, shivering when Takao exhales a soft breath against the pearly light catching at the head of his cock like the moon itself.

“It's like you're not even trying,” Takao pouts. “Come on, baby. I'm down here bruising my knees for you. I just spent the last however many minutes trying to suck your soul out of your cock. You gotta give me something.” Takao swirls his tongue around Midorima's flushed glans, then presses down against the ridge in a way that makes Midorima's cock jerk. “Tell me what you think about, Shintarō.”

Midorima forcibly brings his hand down against Takao's sheet and twists the fabric as if his hold can anchor him. He groans a sound of exasperation, but Takao thinks it has more to do with the lilt of his name on Takao's lips rather than the physicality of his touch. “I think about...you watching me, telling me what you want me to do.”

“Fuck,” Takao says, more breath than actual volume. He begins moving his hand, slow and just this side of tortuous, selfish in how he wants to hear more. “So I was right—you want me to lead...” Takao speaks the final word like it's something tangible, felt in the way an old scar remains a tactile artifact but has lost its hurt. “Have you ever thought about this? What we're doing now?”

Midorima twitches into Takao's touch, and the sound that leaves his mouth breaks like he's choking on a sob. “Yes,” he admits in the form of a hiss.

“Have you thought about doing it to me?” Takao probes, suddenly feeling rapacious, like he's been staving off hunger for _days_ and he needs to taste more of the anguish thrumming between the heat of Midorima's blood and the salt-heat of his skin. So before Midorima even has a chance to respond, Takao does what he's gotten so good at: he _talks_.

“Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to choke on my cock? To submit to me in all of the ways you've never been able to give in to anything? Have you ever thought about what I would feel like inside of you? What it would mean to obey me, to surrender to my touch as I worked you open? Fuck, I bet you'd be so wet for me, baby. I could make you forget all of the things that plague you. I'd fuck you so good, and you'd be so good for me in response. I'd fuck my name right out of your pretty mouth. I'd make you a mess of come and tears, and I'd clean you up with my tongue—but it wouldn't be enough for you. So I'd kiss you, let your come drip down my chin before pressing our lips together to wet your mouth with the taste of yourself, then you'd know just how depraved and filthy you are—how you're every dirty fucking thing you're not supposed to be. I want to bring you down to my level, bring you over to my way of thinking. You'd really have a reason to call me out for my mouth then. I'd scratch _akashingō_ right into your flawless skin, but the pain would be worth it. I'd fuck you through it, lick the blood off your pretty, wet flesh until your life-force was the only thing I could taste.”

Midorima cries out, weak and pitiful, and Takao knows that even with the measured rhythm of his touch, he's getting close to the edge. There's a fresh line of tears dotting his lashes and while Takao wants to kiss his eyelids, he doesn't want to stop what he's doing when he's this close to witnessing what he's dreamed about for years.

“I want to wreck your skin, to fuck you up in ways you wouldn't dare dream about. I want to make you finish so hard that there's nothing in your head but thoughts of me—because I'm selfish and I want you all to myself. I want to mark you, to leave traces of me on every inch of your skin so people know exactly who you belong to. I want your hands to feel where my fingers have been. Fuck, baby—I'd sacrifice everything for you.”

Midorima begins to shake, likely torn between overstimulation and anxiety because it's not easy to come to terms with how you feel after years of living in the dark. And Takao understands because he's experienced it before; he knows just how much weight the truth of his words carries. So he decides to slow down, both in speech and contact, until Midorima isn't shaking so badly. “It's okay, baby. You're okay. Do you need me to stop?”

“No, no, please don't stop,” Midorima begs, reaching out for Takao in sheer, almost panicked desperation.

“It's okay, baby. Relax—I've got you. I'll take care of you,” Takao soothes. He begins to stroke Midorima faster, again, and it's as though the promise shifts something inside of him because he's dripping, precome leaking from his cock as steadily as the continuous trickle of a forgotten faucet.

Midorima's shirt hitches higher up his chest and Takao tracks the motion, wondering if Midorima's feeling the same heat that's coiling tight in his belly, but then Midorima's holding the fabric against his lips, his hands curled into tight fists over his mouth. Takao smiles and widens his knees, allowing himself to sink just enough that he's able to press a kiss to the inside of Midorima's thigh.

“I'm—I can't...” Midorima trails off, trembling under the heat and the vibration of Takao's touch as though he's walking a fine line.

Takao heightens the speed of transition, jerking Midorima off fixedly as the green-eyed boy bucks up into his palm. “Come on, baby, it's okay. Let me hear you, let me see you. I want to watch you come. I _need_ you to come for me.”

His words coax Midorima into orgasm and Takao can feel him falling apart through the pulse beating wildly against his sweaty palm. He helps Midorima ride it out, his touch turning gentle and guarded; each full-body tremor that spasms through the tension of his body moves through Takao. It's as if Midorima's transferring his pleasure right into Takao's veins, like a punch slamming into the strain of his stomach with all the weight of a physical blow. When Takao comes, it's the second time that night and he feels wrecked, just as though he's being torn to pieces by the molten glass that rains down on a faraway planet. He spills over his hand with a keening, quiet sob, and he can hear the strained gasp that comes from Midorima in time with a choked-off breath like it's one of his own.

Takao presses his head against the shuddering weight of Midorima's thigh, not worrying over the viscous emission that catches on the tips of his hair. He breathes out heavily as he tries to bring himself back down from whatever great heights he's traveled to. His body is trembling with hypersensitivity, his limbs are heavy and his mind is weak. After a long moment of nothing but heavy breathing and the natural disturbance of the atmospheric machine, Takao plants staggered, open-mouthed kisses on Midorima's skin. The leftover arousal clinging to his frame mixed with perspiration and saliva leaves his body glistening like he's soaking wet, and if Takao wasn't currently enervated by strain, he'd drink Midorima dry.

But Takao's love for him runs deep inside his bones, so he pulls back, remembering that somehow, this was the first time they shared something of this magnitude.

“Are you okay?” Takao asks, his hands fumbling for purchase against Midorima's thighs as he tries to push himself into standing. “Fuck,” he whines, a soft breath of laughter catching between his swollen lips. He feels worn thin, exhausted, out-wearied by effort, and he's just decided that the floor is his best option for sleep when Midorima paws at him weakly.

“Come up here, Kazunari,” Midorima says, his words slurred on fatigue and depletion of stamina.

Takao warms at the way his name sounds resonating against Midorima's throat, its sharp edges whittled down to something soft and fond. Takao stumbles into standing, a whine catching against his lips when he fits his boxers back against his skin. He nearly collapses onto his bed, and no sooner than he's stationary, Midorima is pressing in close to his chest. Takao thinks that if he were any other species he would melt right into Midorima's skin, and it doesn't sound all that bad really—but then, not five minutes ago he had considered climbing down the soft of Midorima's throat and making a home inside of his body.

“You're like a furnace,” Takao tells him, but it doesn't keep him from wrapping his arms around the taller boy and pulling him nearer. He holds him tight and Midorima presses even closer to Takao's chest somehow, and Takao doesn't want to move but he thinks that if he doesn't speak out, he's violating some unspoken human right between them. “We should get cleaned up,” he says hollowly in his effort to hold back a yawn.

“Soon,” Midorima says, sleepily.

Takao recognizes his tone, identifies his need to rest as something unmistakable; so he covers them as best he can and lets himself be soothed by the shift of Midorima's breathing. The moon has disappeared behind a sea of billowy clouds, spilling the room into a new shade of darkness that makes it hard for Takao to see. His eyes have adjusted enough, however, that he can make out the sweat darkening Midorima's hairline, turning the green of his hair to near-black where it's sticking to his forehead. He wants to run his fingertips over the charcoal lines of his boyfriend's lashes, down the slim line of his nose, over the plush softness of his lips—but he stifles the urge despite his wish to touch because he doesn't want to wake him.

His eagerness to memorize Midorima's features propels his thoughts down a road that, if he hadn't already pushed the limits of his body, would have his cock stirring beneath the fabric of his boxers. For now, however, he sates his desire for tranquility and holds onto the promise that this is only the beginning of a long-line of intimate discoveries.

“I love you, Shin-chan,” he whispers, pressing a single kiss to the crease at Midorima's forehead. And as he begins to drift, his heart swells with invincible defeat that would put an affront upon the boy he used to be. He threads his fingers through Midorima's tapeless digits and lets the gentle sway of slumber pull him a thousand kisses deep.


	30. Wisteria, In Bloom

The week after graduation, Midorima and Takao are sitting on the concrete steps leading up to Takao's apartment building, the outward dichotomy between them far from subtle.

Takao is in short-sleeves while Midorima looks as though he's just tumbled out of winter, wearing a sweater boasting a resplendent thread-count that hugs deliciously close to his lean frame. Takao's hair is windswept and unbrushed, opposite to Midorima's neatly combed strands. Takao is sitting with his elbows pressed in against his far-apart knees, his back and shoulders hunched to support the detrimental pose. Contrarily, Midorima is sitting with his spine in such perfect alignment that he'd make the perfect poster child for good posture— _He's a chiropractor's wet dream,_ Takao thinks.

And while these may be slight nuances to anyone who should pass by, Takao knows how deep they truly run. _Opposites attract_ pops into his mind, albeit this can't be true for every couple— _how is he still getting used to that term?_ —he knows that it is for them.

Takao's mind begins to wander like it so often does, and he's thinking about how if he were a little shorter and a lot rounder, he and Midorima would make a perfect comedy duo based on appearance alone—their tale a deeper juxtaposition of violent contrasts, an antithesis of hard and soft, Melpomene and Thalia, the walrus and the carpenter. Always two halves coming together to form a whole.

“Takao! Pay attention!” Midorima chides, knocking his knee against Takao's. _Another visual contradiction_ , Takao observes; Midorima is wearing light-colored jeans in mint condition whereas Takao is wearing his favorite (newly found) pair of holey black jeans. _Light and dark, old and new, top and bottom_ —Takao knits his brows together— _one of these comparisons is not like the others_...

“Please don't make me resort to violence,” Midorima drawls, an air of defeat slipping through the sigh that follows.

“I'm here, I'm here,” Takao echoes in entertained surrender. “What is it?”

Midorima tells Takao that his parents gifted him with a one-night stay at Tokyo's Mandarin Oriental—a luxury hotel that prides itself on cutting-edge restaurants, impeccable service, and a renowned spa—the latter being of most interest to Midorima and the main reason he received the gift. He describes his suite, _The Oriental_ , in great detail, down to the breathtaking views of Mount Fuji and the luxurious en-suite that overlooks the city. Lastly, he tells Takao of the in-room dining service that boasts a wide selection of mouth-watering Italian dishes hand-crafted by a renowned chef born in Naples, Italy. When he's finished, Midorima stands to stretch and Takao shamelessly steals a glimpse at his pert backside.

“You're such a sucker for fine detail,” Takao teases, squinting against the brilliance of the sun to look up at Midorima. “You tryin' to make me jealous, Shin-chan?”

“What?” Midorima furrows his brow and intercepts the direct line of sunshine to douse Takao in his shadow. “Why would you be jealous?”

“You're going to some fancy spa where someone is going to have their hands all over you. Why _wouldn't_ I be jealous?”

“Maybe because you're going to be _with_ me?” Midorima says, his voice traipsing off into confused territory.

“Wait—what? I didn't—you never asked me!” Takao exclaims, slightly breathless and very much taken aback. “Whatever will people say if they see us going into a hotel together?” Takao gasps and clutches at a row of invisible pearls. “You know what kinds of sordid affairs people go to hotels for...don't you, Shin-chan?”

Midorima is leveling him with a look that Takao can't fully decipher; however, it's intense in that way only Midorima is capable of, and for some reason, it's making him nervous, so he mitigates the weight of potential discomfort and takes Midorima by the hand to play with his fingers.

“I don't know about you sometimes, Takao.”

Takao laughs quietly and lifts his shoulders in a listless shrug. “I don't either.” He tips his head back and stares at Midorima with a single eye, the other shut against the glare reflecting off of Midorima's lenses. “Hey, are you ever going to start using my given name or are you saving that for the bedroom?”

Midorima tugs his hand out of Takao's grip and huffs a breath of put-on incredulity. “Shut up, Takao. You've been calling me the same childish nickname since we met. I don't want to hear–”

“Ah! But I call you many other things, too!” Takao stands and wraps his arms loosely around Midorima's waist. “It's fine, Shin-chan,” he sing-songs. “Since I know how hot and bothered you get when I call you Shintarō, I'll keep your pretty name locked away until we're doing less savory things.”

“Takao?”

“Hm?” Takao leans closer to Midorima's neck to nose at the subtle cologne scenting the skin beneath his sweater.

“Do you remember what happened here, years ago, at this very spot?”

Takao angles his neck and slants his gaze to look at Midorima. “Um, I remember getting punched in the face and you coming to save my ass from what could have been a much worse fate. Why? Do you want me to give you some kind of reward? 'Cause I'd be up for that.”

Midorima shakes his head and looks off into the distance, almost fondly but not quite. “I was thinking more along the lines of repeating history. Only this time, it would be my fist and not Haizaki's.” Midorima pinches Takao in the side and Takao yelps in surprise.

“Okay, I should have seen that coming,” Takao laughs and dodges a second attack.

“One of these days you'll learn how to hold your tongue...I just know it,” Midorima badgers.

“I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you, Shin-chan. The only way I know how to hold my tongue is–”

“Takao!”

Takao cackles and darts out of Midorima's reach. “I just don't understand why you don't want me to be honest with you, Shin-chan.”

“Takao, I hate you and everything you stand for.”

* * *

The day comes sooner than Takao is prepared for it.

He packs what he thinks he needs, then packs again because surely he won't need six pairs of boxers and three hoodies for a one-night stay. It takes him every minute of an entire hour to get his clothes right and a text from Midorima reminding him to pack what toiletries he'll need before he's finally ready to go.

A sleek black car arrives at one o'clock on the dot but it takes Takao nearly five minutes to get outside due to the promises he's forced to give his mother. She kisses him on the cheek and flings both standard-issue and anomalous pieces of advice at him, _cautionary advice—_ almost as if she _knows_ what's running through Takao's mind. And that's not something that Takao wants to think about, so he assures her that he understands the importance of exercising good judgment and all but bolts out of his apartment.

He packs his luggage into the trunk despite the driver's offer to help, then hastily slides into the back where Midorima's sitting. “Don't look at me like that, Shin-chan. It wasn't my fault.”

Midorima's complexion blossoms into a rosy tone and Takao notices that he's wiping his palms on his jeans. “Did you get a...talk, too?” he questions as the car pulls away from the curb and onto the street.

Takao opens his mouth to respond but laughs instead. Picturing Midorima in his place, listening to one or both of his parents give him a talk straight from the shoulder was amusing, albeit in a way that Takao could sympathize with, of course.

“It's not funny, Takao,” Midorima scolds. “My parents are doctors. They don't mince words.”

“I guess that'd be pretty horrifying, yeah. But how do they _know_?” Takao asks, speaking the latter question in a whisper. “We didn't even _talk_ about it. I mean...”

“They were our age once, too, Takao. Did you think you were delivered by a stork?”

“That would make for a more interesting story,” Takao answers. Then: “Of course not, but I don't want to _think_ about it. I like to pretend that the miracle of life has more to do with supernatural phenomena than body parts and delivery rooms.”

Midorima snorts a breath of amusement and shakes his head. “Suit yourself, Takao. Now, for a much more pleasant subject, we're going to grab something light to eat, then go to the hotel. Check-in is at three.”

“Sounds good. I had a late breakfast but you know me, I'm always hungry.” Takao pats his stomach and leans back against the patent leather interior, stretching his arms behind his head.

“I also know that you're still choosing sweets over healthy alternatives. That's why you're hungry all the time. If you ate a balanced meal–”

“Speaking of!” Takao blurts, sitting ramrod straight. “Can we go to that gourmet shop inside of the hotel? I'm fully prepared to burn a hole in my pocket on pastries and cakes.” Takao claps his hands and rubs them together. “My mouth is watering just thinking about it.”

“We'll see,” Midorima answers, a sigh on his breath. “First, lunch.”

“More like an afternoon snack,” Takao grouses. He attempts to cross his arms but Midorima pinches him in the side, making Takao balk and fling himself out of the car when it rolls to a complete stop.

Much to Takao's surprise, he's too full after a single bowl of _gyudon_ and a cup of _genmaicha_ to eat anything else. It's too early to check-in at the hotel—which they're now conveniently within walking distance from—according to Midorima. So they relax and talk for a while until finally, Takao's supplication to visit The Mandarin Oriental Gourmet Shop prevails and Midorima gives in.

They retrieve their luggage from the car, parked a short distance away. Takao waits for Midorima to finish expressing his gratitude to the driver before they set off in the direction of the hotel. The streets are unsurprisingly dappled with people and the crowds seem to grow thicker the closer they get to their destination. Once on Ginza's main thoroughfare, Takao discreetly hooks his index finger around one of Midorima's belt loops to keep him close.

At last, the shop's storefront comes into view, but despite the tower of macarons in the window and the sweets visible on the opposite side of the polished glass, Takao finds that he's no longer craving sugar or pastries. He's become surfeited with trepidation and anticipation. He's teeming with uneasiness because _this is really happening._ But he's also overflowing with excitement, full of fervor and enthusiasm.

He steals a glimpse at Midorima, and he knows by just one look that he's experiencing a similar response. It helps in a way, helps him see that he's not alone where it matters the most. So he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that there's still time; even though he knows that the closer the clock ticks down to nightfall, what he's feeling is only going to increase exponentially. Still, he sticks himself to the side of optimism because it's all he can do to keep from losing his cool—or his lunch.

* * *

There's no going back, not after tonight. Takao knows that by doing this, he's leaving a part of himself behind, becoming someone he isn't wholly acquainted with yet—and while he doesn't feel comfortable speaking for Midorima, he's sure that he's feeling it, too. If not more so.

Takao digs through his borrowed suitcase, thinking that he should really get his own, and pulls out the shirt he stole from Midorima all those years ago. He smiles at it warmly, as if the washed and worn fabric can feel the fondness woven into his heart like a stitch. He shucks his best dress shirt and stuffs it among his other belongings, citing it as a _later_ problem, and pulls the reclaimed T-shirt over his head in its place. The fabric has faded with time and there's a wide tear just beneath the collar, likely the victim of a snag, but Takao doesn't mind. It's soft and it's comfortable and even though it's been in his care for years, it's still _Midorima's_.

He hastily sheds his pants, then changes his clean boxers for a different pair of clean boxers _just because._ He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in several directions at once, and after a short attempt of smoothing it back into place with no success, he makes his way over to the edge of the bed and sits down. He worries the bottom line of his mouth between his teeth and tries to ignore the fact that his leg has gone from zero to sixty in seconds. He hopes the vibration can't be heard on the floor beneath them because he doesn't know that he'll be willing his nervous habits to calm any time soon.

He pictures Midorima in the bathroom, maybe standing in front of one of the two black sinks, staring at his reflection as he tries to muster up the courage to push aside the only thing keeping them apart. Takao swallows thickly and slides off of the neatly made bed to relocate for the sake of sheer movement alone. He wishes, when he presses one knee in against the plush bench seat opposite the faux Wisteria in full bloom that kisses the ceiling, that he could impel the winged seeds trying to plant themselves in his heart onward.

He knows that he's clean, probably the cleanest he's been in a while due to spending half the day undergoing a ritual that focused on every inch of his skin—not to mention, he and Midorima had taken steaming showers when everything was said and done. But before he'd experienced having his feet washed, a skin-preparing exfoliation, bathing in an essential oil blend, being covered in silk-soft mud chased by thermal steam, a nurturing full-body Kiatsu massage, more essential oils, and lastly, a hydrating facial, Takao didn't know so many skin-related products existed. Furthermore, he hadn't known that essential oils each had their own purposes rather than simply differing in smell. At the end of it all, Takao learned that there are unique scrubs and serums and lotions for different parts of the body; and that maybe, he shouldn't be using oily hand cream on his face. He also learned that he has a deep love for sky-high infinity bathtubs.

Takao drags his focus back to the present and lets his vision blur with the many lights stippling the distinguished backdrop of Mount Fuji's sloping precipice in the distance. He recalls the pamphlets that he read, courtesy of Midorima, and how stupid he'd felt at the time; but now he feels grateful because while he's more nervous than he thinks he's ever been, it helps to know that he's well-prepared. If nothing else, he doesn't feel as awkward about it, this time, and even with all the anticipation dancing through his veins, he knows that he's ready.

Takao stares at himself in the glass window, which is momentarily distracting because he wonders if the face that's being cast back at him is what Midorima sees when he looks at him. He debates whether he should have put more effort into his appearance but as he runs his fingers through his hair, again, he knows that he doesn't need to _impress_ Midorima. It never made much sense to him—but then, Midorima has never had to _try_ for him because to Takao, he's perfection in every sense of the word. He supposes that he'll need a little more time to come to terms with the fact that someone could feel the same about him. It seems a little self-deprecating but then, Takao thinks it's just plain embarrassing to try to see yourself from the other side of the glass. Maybe it takes a narcissist to truly understand that specific set of values; regardless, he has no interest in finding out.

Takao hears the blow dryer start and he can't help but smile because it's so like Midorima to freshen up after freshening up. When the sound dies, Takao can hear the tap of a toothbrush followed by the distinct rush of water. He decides to go through a mental checklist while he waits for Midorima's return because if he's learned anything from growing up, it's to avoid letting his thoughts corrode and fester in silent danger. _If you run with your thoughts you might as well be running with the devil._

Takao had brushed his teeth as soon as they'd finished dinner, not wanting to impress any bad taste on Midorima should things get this far. And to be honest, Takao refuses to consider _this far_ to be anything more than a figment of his imagination, something like a hopeful sentiment that still stands on the opposite side of some unseen barricade because there's still too much room for either of them to about-face and return to _before;_ which is something else entirely, since Takao is finding it hard to believe that anything has existed prior to this monumental moment.

He realizes that he's thinking too much, that he's doing the very thing he warned himself about, so he redirects his focus and counts to ten. He takes a deep breath, then slowly exhales in an attempt to convert his nervous energy into something useful, at least.

He's cleaned himself to polished perfection, brushed his teeth, _changed into something more comfortable_ , which means that he's done his part, mostly. It leaves only one, albeit very important, thing left to mark off of his mental compendium—and he's almost afraid to check but he _knows_ Midorima, and if the discreet slide of a drawer he heard when he was scouting out the other rooms is indicative of what Takao believes it to be, then there should be a bottle of lube and a stash of condoms readily available in the case that...

He's ready, he knows he's ready, he's never been _more_ ready, which is why he's trying to contend with the palpitations playing a game of table tennis in and around his heart. He plays the phrase on repeat, a mantra that's become ever-present in his daily life for the past few weeks. He tries to steer his thoughts far away from the drawer on his side of the bed because Midorima _always_ takes the same side—one of his most preeminent compulsions—and he would have had the foresight to plan ahead, for the sake of simple convenience.

“Takao?” Midorima says, sliding the door to the bathroom closed with a soft drag of light wood against porcelain tile. His voice is quiet, like a television turned down low in the interest of hearing a contiguous conversation.

Takao turns to look at Midorima so quickly that he nearly falls off of the bench seat. He staggers himself into standing and leans against a protruding section of wall in what he would have once dubbed 'a cool guy's stance.' Now, he's hoping that he doesn't look as stupid as he feels.

Midorima blushes when Takao gives him a once-over, from his slippered feet to his fluffier-than-usual coiffure. He's wearing one of the plush robes offered by the hotel and it's tied so tight around his waist Takao isn't sure how he's keeping his breathing even. He thinks about alleviating some of the tension with an apropos quip about how they've seen each other naked more times than Takao can count, but he doesn't because...well, he understands that Midorima's actively undergoing pressures of a monumental nature.

Just then, Midorima shivers and Takao thinks he can spot gooseflesh on his skin, and he knows that he's been staring for too long when the green-eyed boy subconsciously lifts his hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Takao doesn't realize that his mouth has been hanging open until he works to close it, and at this point, his aperture feels as though it's been stuffed full of cotton for how dry it's gone. He struggles to find the right thing to say because Midorima looks like some kind of holy thing standing in front of him and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't intimidated.

“Hi there,” he finally manages, his voice cracking in a way it hasn't since he gladly checked out of puberty. He clears his throat and pushes himself away from the wall, tripping over his feet as if they've tripled in size. “Hey.”

Midorima fingers the belt tied in a knot just beneath his navel and quirks his lips in a crooked smile. “Hello,” is his response, a little warmer than the way Takao's name had sounded on his tongue. “Enjoying the view?”

Takao opens and closes his mouth like some species of brainless fish, and Midorima must read the misconception on his face because he chuckles and gestures at the window to Takao's back.

“Uh, yeah...” Takao curses himself— _Such an eloquent response, good job, Kazunari_ —and fixes his gaze on Midorima's steam-flushed face. “It's beautiful,” he tags on, wanting Midorima to understand that he intends the admission to be open to more than one interpretation.

“Oh, that's... I'm glad you're enjoying it,” Midorima fumbles. His gaze shifts to the faux plant to his left, then to the line of windows overlooking the city to his right.

Takao scratches at a spot on the back of his neck, hating how the quiet is spreading to tangible discomfort on his skin. He needs to do something to break the silence, to lessen the air of perplexity and fright that is better suited to a blood-and-thunder novel. He glances around the room and wets his lips as he drags his clammy palms down the lower half of his shirt. “Should we...um...close the curtains?”

“I can't believe you still wear that.”

Takao follows Midorima's line of sight and laughs when he realizes that he's referring to his old T-shirt. “Of course I do. It's the most expensive thing I own. I'm not just going to toss it out. 'Sides, it's vintage now. Maybe it'll be worth something someday,” Takao jokes, running his fingers along the hem that's missing a few threads.

Midorima huffs a breath of laughter and shakes his head in a show of lovesome confusion. “I don't think I'll ever fully understand you, Takao.” He makes his way over to the nearest curtain and begins pulling it shut.

“No, no, wait!” Takao says, forgetting his nerves in favor of jumping onto the bed and presenting a panel of buttons on the wall. “This is a luxury hotel, baby. You're doing the work of the proletariat. There's a button for that!” Takao pushes the aforementioned switch and the embellished curtains come to life and slowly serve to shut out the world on the opposite side of the cold glass. He punches another switch and the curtains on the adjoining wall follow suit, casting the room in a warm yellow-white glow.

Midorima arches an eyebrow but he looks pleasantly amused. “I'm happy to see that you're still enamored with the little things.”

It's such a simple statement but it catches Takao out of the blue, fills him up like the places where mice make their homes, and pervades him with enough confidence to peer through unattended keyholes. “I have to admit, I'm enamored with much more than little things right now, baby.” He scoots down to the edge of the bed and lets his legs fall apart in preparedness should Midorima want to take up the space.

“Was that—a dick joke?” Midorima asks, looking all too unimpressed.

“No, I mean...I wasn't intending it to be... I'm not sure what angle you're going for, so it could be if you play your cards right.” Takao reaches out for Midorima because his hands are shaking with the need to do _something_. “Stop looking at me like that. I was joking,” Takao says around breathless laughter. “Get over here.”

Midorima presses his lips together, and Takao wants to believe that the light catching on his glasses are galaxies in his eyes. He takes a single step forward and while everything about his stance screams domination, Takao can see through the outermost expression and down to the fragile threads of trepidation curled around his heart, almost protectively, which is absurd for what they stand for. Still, Midorima responds to the open suggestion as waves call to sandy shores and salty channels.

Takao fits his hand against the plush weight of Midorima's hip. He feels like he's dreaming, tripping, and reeling for the way Midorima is looking at him, almost as if his eyes are begging for him in measures that his mouth can't. Midorima slides his fingers through Takao's hair and Takao pulls him in closer, fingers digging into the soft fabric as if it were skin.

“Your neck is bruised,” Midorima says, raising his free hand to ghost his fingertips over the thrum of Takao's pulse. Takao shivers and Midorima expands his trajectory, trailing his fingers lower until he can slip his fingers between torn fabric to stroke over the jut of Takao's collarbone. “Are all of these from me?” Midorima asks, fear on his breath, which is redolent of strong mint.

Takao shakes his head, not in dissent but dissidence. “I know what you're thinking and trust me, I like the bruises.” He takes the hand resting against the hollow of his throat and begins to kiss each of Midorima's fingers in turn. When he reaches his middle finger, he stills, realizing that he's holding Midorima's left hand and the tape that has been a part of him for so long is missing. “Where's–”

“Not tonight,” Midorima interjects hastily. “I wanted–”

Takao stands up and takes Midorima's face between his hands, and it's not to silence him because Takao knows that Midorima had no intention of finishing that sentence. He doesn't need to, and Takao wants to prove that to him, that he can feel comforted by Takao's carefully guided awareness—he _knows_. He fits his lips to Midorima's and swallows up his next breath, his thumbs brushing over the contours of his cheekbones, every touch speaking a truth that can only be felt, not heard.

“Sit down,” Takao says, his lips moving against Midorima's. He swaps their positions and Midorima does as he's told, Takao's hands still warm on his cheeks. He tips his head back ever so slightly, and Takao takes the hint, ducking forward just enough to slip his tongue into Midorima's mouth. He shifts his hand, lets it sweep over the baby-fine hairs at Midorima's temple, then tangles his fingers in his still-warm strands. “You're so beautiful, Shintarō.”

Midorima flushes under Takao's touch and drives more force behind his part of the kiss. Takao smiles into it, lets his tongue tango with the tantalizing taste of his lover. He feels his heart skip eight beats at once, gasps against the growing damp of Midorima's mouth. He lifts his right leg and Midorima meets the motion, aiding in Takao's blind search for the edge of the mattress. He stands one-legged for a moment, the opposite appendage pressed firmly against the gentle scratch of Midorima's robe. They kiss in slow circles around a landscape of reckless design, though, it's without the desperation of an hourglass counting down against the uncharted deep. And when Takao finally settles himself in Midorima's lap, he relishes in the comfort that they can take things as slowly as they want, or need, this time.

Takao thinks that Midorima tastes like outer space, like effervescent, sugar-coated cosmos. His touch is as light as the zephyr that stirs the diaphanous drapery of long-forgotten cobwebs. He smells like summer and paradise and something so far out of the city that Takao can't give it a proper name. He begins to wonder when his brain became a font of poetic imagery but his curiosity is shuttered as soon as he gets his fingers directly on Midorima's skin.

It helps, knowing that no matter how far or wide the ocean of emptiness between them grows, they will go into the ether and locate each other just as easily as finding tomorrow. This is what inspires Takao to take every feeling plaguing Midorima and wear it like it's his own.

“Do you remember the first time you told me to kiss you?” Takao asks, nipping at Midorima's lips playfully between words.

“How could I forget?” Midorima tilts his head back to look into Takao's eyes. He drapes an arm around Takao's waist as if he's afraid of the shorter boy losing gravity.

“I need you to unearth that same courage now. Can you do that for me, baby?”

A wrinkle settles along Midorima's forehead and Takao doesn't hesitate for a moment before he plants a firm kiss to the furrow that settles between Midorima's eyebrows.

“What do you need from me?” Midorima asks, his voice edging toward wariness.

“I need to hear you say it. I need you to tell me what you want.” Takao presses his body closer to Midorima's chest and slides his hands low enough to drag soft scores down his back and harder scratches on the return.

“I want—I need you.”

Takao leans back into the safety of Midorima's grip and lifts one hand away from Midorima's back to bury his fingers deep in his hair. He tugs his head back lightly and begins to plant wet open-mouthed kisses along the smooth line of his jaw. “You have me. Always. What else, baby? What else do you need?”

“I want you to...” Midorima makes a sharp, half-strangled noise because Takao chooses that moment to grind down against him, and Takao thinks it might be the closest thing to coherency he's going to get out of him, considering the circumstances.

Takao kisses him bruise-hard and hungry, licking deep then shallow, soft then rough, as if he can devour every molecule crowding the distance Takao no longer wants between them. “What do you want?” Takao flicks his tongue out against the roof of Midorima's mouth and delights in the shiver it earns him. “Do you want me to fuck you? Is that what you were trying to get at?” Midorima responds in motion rather than giving his answer voice, arching up to meet Takao's down-thrust in hopeless acknowledgment.

“Not good enough,” Takao scolds, catching the give of Midorima's lip between his teeth. He bites down gently and tugs just hard enough to draw a moan up Midorima's throat, and it's like he can taste the sound fresh at his lips. When he lets the soft tissue spring free, Midorima emits a noise that could easily be misread as violence.

“Yes, Takao. Yes, I want you to fuck me. I want to feel your fingers around me, _in me_ , and I want...I want _you_. Is that good enough?”

Takao's unvoiced words of amusement spill into laughter that dries some of the saliva glistening on Midorima's lips. “If I didn't know better, I'd think consent was at the bottom of your list of priorities.”

“I gave you my consent a long time ago, Kazunari,” Midorima says with so much emotional weight that Takao can feel it settle between his ribs like a thick layer of sorghum syrup.

“I'll never get tired of hearing that,” Takao says, just this side of breathless. “Not even when we're old and wrinkly and we have to take pills just to get it up,” Takao smiles. “If you'll still have me, that is.” He reaches down to the neatly tied knot that sits just above the precipitated shift of Midorima's lower abdomen and rubs the soft material between his fingers.

“As much as it pains me to admit, you're the only one for me, Takao,” Midorima quips, now running his hand up and down the slight curve of Takao's spine.

“I'd contest that statement but yeah, I'm a lot to handle,” Takao concedes, laughing. “So, is it safe to assume that you're shamelessly naked beneath this lush blanket?”

Midorima struggles to swallow but nods his head in the affirmative in an encouraging answer to Takao's question.

Takao offers him a soft, reassuring smile in return and begins to slowly untangle the fabric knot with his trembling fingers; a combination of anticipation and nervousness runs like a rampant water leak through his veins. “You're not hiding a chastity belt under here, are you? I heard that they make them for men now, and that would just be mean.”

The corner of Midorima's mouth tugs upward despite how bloodless his complexion has gone in the pale light. “Takao, where do you hear these things? Or do you just take everything you read online for gospel?”

“Not everything you read online is unfounded.” Takao finally gets the belt loosened enough to pull apart, and when he does, the fabric of Midorima's robe falls open just enough to reveal a line from his wan chest down to the fine strip of hair that hugs his navel before dropping out of sight. “Fuck,” he exhales, immediately forgetting the rest of what he wanted to say. He takes a moment to fully appreciate the sight before him, then lifts his gaze to meet Midorima's sincere focus. “You're so fucking gorgeous.” He takes Midorima's face in his hands and kisses him firmly on the mouth. “You know that, don't you?”

Midorima hums into the kiss and Takao feels his fingers stiffen against his spine. He's never been good at accepting forms of flattery but Takao is willing to play his compliments on repeat until he's blue in the face if that's what it takes for Midorima to come out of his self-made cage.

Takao holds his face a little stronger, his thumbs pressing in against his cheekbones as he dusts the faint freckles that stipple his skin with gentle caresses. “You're beautiful and perfect and mine, and I'm not going to stop telling you these things until the day I die.” Takao presses a chaste kiss to the stubborn furrow of Midorima's brow. “Get used to it, baby. I'd change a lot of things for you but not this. This stays.”

Midorima groans something incoherent and puts on an expression of irritation, but it doesn't have the effect he's aiming for because Takao only finds it endearing. Which isn't all that surprising—Takao is pretty sure that Midorima could charm the pants off of him halfway through his worst cold flu—it's impossible to imagine a time when Midorima could be unattractive to him. Still, Takao knows that they have plenty of time for _sweet_ and _charming;_ right now, time is about something else entirely.

So before he loses his nerve, he lowers his hand to the cushy material bunched up in Midorima's lap. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and watches Midorima's expression for any signs of discomfort. When he finds none, he slips his hand beneath the robe to curl his fingers around the other boy's half-hard response. Midorima's breath catches in his throat and Takao carefully strokes over him, his palm just slick enough to cancel out any unwanted friction.

Midorima emits a sound that's rapidly approaching a whimper so Takao leans forward to suck and nibble at his bottom lip. He twists his wrist just so and slides his hand higher until he's massaging Midorima's slit, salt-slick catching at the pad of his thumb. He has to make room for a gasp of air, and when he pulls back slightly, Midorima's eyes are hooded and glazed with heat. Takao grins wickedly and flicks his fingernail against the ridge of Midorima's cockhead, making Midorima's half-shuttered eyes fly open.

“Stop teasing me, Takao.”

Takao chuckles. “How am I supposed to stop when you're looking at me like that? I think you're trying to kill me. Is that why you brought me here? Violence in hotels is scarce but not unheard of, and with your family's name, you just might be able to pull it off.”

“Talking about murder isn't going to get me there, Takao,” Midorima warns.

Takao laughs again. “Do you sincerely want me to stop?” He smears a bead of precome into Midorima's slit then drags his hand, painfully slow, down to the base of his cock.

Midorima seems to consider the question for a moment, then: “No, but I think I'd like to...the other night...return...favor,” he says in a string of disjointed speech that would be better understood on paper. Still, Takao registers his aim and grins.

“So what are we talkin'? Do you want me to go into the other room and pretend like I don't know that you're in here jerking off just so I can round the corner and practice my improv skills? 'Cause I have to be honest with you, baby, I can be funny but I've never considered myself much of a thespian.”

Midorima's brow wrinkles as a look that's half-confused, half-annoyed shapes his features. It takes a moment before the correlation clicks and when it does, Midorima rolls his eyes. “I don't mean...not that part, Takao. I want to...” he trails off and seizes Takao's wrist in a loose grip. “If you keep doing that, we're not going to make it to...”

“The grand finale?” Takao jokes, circling his index finger over the head of Midorima's cock.

“You're impossible.” Midorima shakes his head but he doesn't look as put-out as he sounds. Instead, he grips Takao's hips in his strong hands and slides him forcibly out of his lap and onto the bed. “Let me do this.”

“Are you sure?” Takao asks, every trace of playfulness blanketed by seriousness and genuine concern. “You don't have to.”

“I'm sure,” Midorima answers. And while Takao is skeptical because _can he handle this when he can't even speak what he wants to do?_ he doesn't want to make Midorima feel small or insignificant. But the worry worn into his conscience must be visible on his face because Midorima is lifting Takao's weight enough to slide him further up the bed as a means of confirmation. “I'm _sure_ ,” he reiterates.

Takao issues a helpless smile, and when Midorima braces his hands on either side of his hips, hovering over Takao's legs, he begins to laugh. “This is horrible,” Takao starts, laughing harder now. “How the fuck did you stay so calm when this was happening to you? I feel like my heart is going to puke all over my chest or something.”

“That's not possible,” Midorima says needlessly. Though, when Takao doesn't respond to what he already knows, Midorima plants a kiss over the space of his heart like he did when he spread band-aids over Takao's scraped knees all those years ago—as if to say, I'll always fix you when you need it the most. It opens up a part of him he'd long forgotten, the part of him that couldn't imagine getting married when his parents teased a future with the little girl down the hall. He didn't want to get married, not to a _girl_ , at least. However, after that fateful day that changed his life, he could imagine Midorima beside him, exchanging nuptial cups and drinking sake. And when he was a little bit older, when girls were no longer _uncool_ and he'd outgrown the childhood belief that cooties were a contractible illness, he _still_ couldn't imagine standing beside a woman at a shrine. Yet, it was always easy to imagine Midorima, dressed up and serious, but smiling that rare smile that only Takao got to see because it was _meant_ for him.

Midorima's fingers dip beneath the waistband of Takao's boxers and it tugs him back to the present moment, similar to waking up to the resonance of an abandoned piano coming to life in the dark. “Is this okay?” Midorima asks, unease sewn into the shape of his too-tight lips. And like the hammer strikes the strings to make a musical tone, Takao issues a vibration of unspoken response in concert with an ardent nod.

Midorima tugs Takao's boxers down slowly, his soft fingers ghosting his skin as he works the material past the increasing length of Takao's cock. It's anticipation at its finest, and Takao can feel his heart shift into overdrive like the switching of gears is threatening to blow the transmission. He doesn't know what to do with his hands so he covers his face and hides behind his palms as if it's enough—but it's not, and all of the air in his lungs is being punched out of him by thoughts and memories of their history together.

Midorima finally curls his fingers around Takao's shaft, and while Takao is grateful that he's decided to forgo taping his fingers tonight, he can't help but fantasize about the scratch and the traction, a hurried handjob after a winning match, tired bodies running solely on adrenaline, slick-sweat and too much heat and sloppy kisses between panting breaths...

Midorima twists his wrist and drags his touch from root to tip in an implicit pursuit for Takao's attention. It works, almost too well. The hazy daydream evaporates from Takao's mind and the friction makes his spine come away from the bed, his body arching as if he's chasing unfounded affection. “I need you here with me,” Midorima tells him, his voice light and sweet.

His breath is hot as it spills over his soft-pink lips and onto the head of Takao's cock, already glistening with a droplet of early arousal. It underscores what Takao expects, makes him vibrantly aware of how close Midorima's mouth is to his cock. He tries to calm the rapid thrum of his heart, to ground the lightning in his veins, to even the rate of his breathing—except, somewhere between Midorima's fingers and his lips, Takao has stopped breathing entirely.

When he finally manages to fit a breath between his bitten lips, Midorima flicks his tongue out against the bead of precome welling at Takao's tip. Takao shudders, almost violently, and Midorima looks nervous for a moment, but after a second of what's most likely self-reassurance, he continues. He presses feather-soft kisses down the length of Takao's shaft, measured and careful caresses that spill into tiny drags of suction as Midorima's confidence grows. Takao whimpers and lets his head fall back against the bed in a way that borders on painful, missing the pillows but unable to find it within himself to care.

Midorima gently scratches the insides of Takao's thighs and the physical touch is pleasant but far from adequate. Takao whines and slides his hands into the fall of Midorima's hair, fingers skimming over the line of his scalp. “You're killing me, baby. _Please_.” It's all he can manage verbally but his hands— _they've always had a mind of their own—_ tug harshly at Midorima's hair, and it must offer just the right amount of encouragement because Midorima is sliding his mouth past the head of Takao's cock and right down to the groomed skin of his pelvis.

“Fuck,” Takao spits, tightening his grip to what must be a painful degree. But if Midorima minds, he doesn't show it. Instead, he presses his lips closer to Takao's skin and hollows his cheeks on the return. He inhales a sharp breath through his nose before repeating the motion, a quiet moan catching in the back of his throat. Takao curls his toes involuntarily despite his attempts to drive the tension out of his limbs because if he were to get a cramp at this stage, he'd never forgive himself.

Takao shifts imperceptibly but the move forces his cock deeper, right back to the soft give of Midorima's throat. Takao expects Midorima to complain, to draw back and off of his cock with a look of irritation carved into his expression. To his surprise, however, Midorima emits a shameless whimper, and Takao can feel the clench of his throat around his glans as Midorima tries to swallow around him.

_He's loving this_ , Takao thinks. He's almost sure that he's not wrong about this, would be willing to bet his bottom dollar on it, in fact. However, he doesn't want to push Midorima or force him into something he can't consent to, so he decides to start slow by testing the waters. He angles his hips and tugs on the green strands between his fingers in tandem, in a way that could be easily read as enthusiasm rather than dominance. He pays careful attention to Midorima's response but scrutiny is needless because Midorima offers up his reaction like woe is pronounced against sinners.

“You look so fucking beautiful like this, like you were made for sucking my cock.” Takao balances his weight on his elbows and removes one hand from Midorima's hair to press his thumb into his mouth alongside his aching hardness. “I bet I could have you begging for it. Pleading with those perfect, pretty lips, cock wet and tears on your lashes. You might be headstrong and haughty at times but you'd do anything for me, wouldn't you? You like being a slut for me, don't you, Shin-chan?” Takao presses his thumb deeper, dragging the edge of his fingernail against the soft-wet of Midorima's cheek. “You like when I take control. You _like_ when it hurts a little.” A pathetic moan shakes in the back of Midorima's throat and Takao chuckles softly for effect, a gesture that pretends at indomitable restraint; but he knows that he can't field the idyllic enjoyments of Midorima's ministrations much longer if he wants to accomplish what they indirectly came here to do. He's already so close to the edge that one misstep could throw him into an orgasm.

“That's enough, baby. I don't want to come until I'm inside of you and your mouth is proving to be a dangerous thing.” Takao removes his thumb from Midorima's aperture along with a thin trail of saliva that breaks and sticks to Midorima's chin. The green-haired boy's eyes are closed behind his glasses and Takao can see tiny droplets smeared against his lenses and wet clinging to the ends of his lashes. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from spilling into Midorima's mouth on the spot. Midorima is so far gone that Takao is forced to brace a hand against the back of his neck and _squeeze_ to drag him back to full awareness.

Midorima blinks open his eyes and gingerly slides his mouth off of Takao's cock. His cheeks are flushed, and he's flexing his jaw like it aches when the first threads of clarity filter through his watery gaze. He swallows once, twice, then touches his tongue to his glistening lips before speaking. “I'm sorry. I think I got carried away.”

“What the fuck are you apologizing for?” Takao fights to sit upright, and when he does, he rests his palm on Midorima's jaw and curls his fingers in against his cheek. “That was one of the best experiences of my life. If you're that smitten with sucking my cock, I'll actively help you lose yourself. If tying a bow around my dick gets you worked-up, I'll oblige. You name it, I'll do it.”

Midorima looks slightly pained but he's smiling and Takao feels like he's raking in the world's largest jackpot.

“I love you so much, Shintarō,” Takao says, suddenly serious as he slides his hand higher to gently rub Midorima's earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you think you're...?

Some of the color that's returned to Midorima's face leaves him, but he's nodding nonetheless. “I am. I'm...I'm ready, I mean.”

Takao tries to provide some kind of acknowledgment but his brain and his body have stopped working together as if there's a short in the wires that have tangled themselves in knots around his nucleus. He mutters something that sounds closer to a foreign language than his native speech and stutters in his movements when he tries to slide off of the bed.

“Are you okay?” Midorima asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Are you?” Takao counters, almost defensively. He takes a deep breath, then laughs. “Yeah, I just...it got real for a minute. I can't believe that we're actually—that we made it this far.”

Midorima relinquishes his stance to grant Takao freedom and move further up the bed. “I know what you mean,” he says, and the strain to make his voice heard is apparent. “I think I hit that point before we even checked in.”

Takao exhales a breath of voiceless humor and walks up his side of the bed. “I didn't say this was the first time it happened to me.” His tone is teasing but he's being honest. He doesn't remember when his heart last thumped without an extra beat. He feels himself getting nostalgic and he's afraid that he's going to lose his nerve if he doesn't act soon. So he claps his hands together and tugs open the bedside drawer with shaking fingers. The drawer is slightly offset in its track and it makes a groaning sound before Takao reaches inside for the bottle of lube and the strip of condoms he knew he would find. “You should take your glasses off. Things are about to get messy,” Takao half-jokes. “Oh, and put one of those pillows under your back. I read that it can” –Takao blushes– “well, you know.”

Midorima twists his lean frame and retrieves one of the smaller pillows decorating the bed and holds it tight in his hands for a moment. “I don't want to take them off,” he says, turning his head to look Takao in the eye. “I want to see you.”

Several one-liners enter Takao's mind at once because it's always been easier to make jokes when he's nervous, but the feeling that spreads through his chest is authentic and he doesn't want to ruin the moment with distortion. He decides to settle somewhere in the middle.

“That's—um, thanks. I just hope that putting me on center stage doesn't come around to bite you in the ass. I've never done this before so I have no idea what you're about to see.”

Midorima lifts his shoulders in an attempt at a shrug but it doesn't quite meet the mark. “That goes for both of us.” His cheeks darken to a dusty pink and when he works the pillow behind his lower back, Takao thinks it's to choke out his embarrassment rather than necessity.

Takao tries not to watch Midorima, who has taken to working his arms free of the robe still dressing his frame. It reminds him that he's still partially dressed, so he quickly shucks his boxers and T-shirt, dropping both articles of clothing beside the bed before he pops open the bottle of lube and carefully turns it over. He knows that this is right at the top of the most anxious they've ever felt, just as much as he knows he wouldn't want his every move pored over and analyzed, but it's just so hard not to look when there's so much to be _seen_.

Takao ends up pouring too much of the clear liquid over his fingers but he remembers reading that too much is better than not enough, so he doesn't fuss over the slick spill and climbs onto the bed next to Midorima.

At last, he's finally able to arrest a moment to selfishly take in every inch of Midorima's body, now laid bare and exposed before him. “This is going to sound incredibly cheesy and you're free to hit me when I'm done but...there's not a single word to describe how gorgeous you are to me. You're just...perfect, and knowing that you're mine makes it...fuck, I don't know, like some kind of Utopian dream. I feel like I'm the luckiest person on the planet.”

Midorima's complexion is overshadowed by a rich shade of red and Takao is reminded of the first time they kissed. He smiles fondly but it seamlessly slips into a laugh when Midorima says “Shut up, Takao.”

“I hate to break it to you, baby, but if you want quiet then this is going to be a terribly disappointing experience for you.” Takao moves over to Midorima's outstretched legs and gently taps the space above his knee.

Midorima spreads his legs to make space for Takao, who fits himself in the offered clearance as if it's where he belongs. “Takao, I would be the world's biggest idiot if I expected you to be quiet.”

“You're not wrong,” Takao declares, wiggling his fingers together, only to find that the lube has grown tacky and some of it has already started to dry on the heat of his skin. He makes a mental note of it and reaches for the bottle he thankfully had the foresight to leave on the bed. “But you're not exactly quiet when it comes to sex either.”

Midorima opens his mouth to respond but Takao grabs his cock, delivering several firm strokes to silence him. “You only get to say whatever you were going to say _after_ we've gone all the way, and only if it still stands.” He turns over the bottle and dribbles more liquid onto his fingers. “Are you ready? I'm going to start opening you up.”

Midorima emits a choked-off sound that dissolves when he clears his throat. “I—you can start with two. If you want. I somewhat...prepared in the bathroom.”

Takao stares at him, mouth agape and wide-eyed. “I knew that you'd take care of the like...medical stuff but I didn't...” Takao sweeps his tongue across his bottom lip. “Fuck, you make me so hard.” He shakes his head like he can't fully process what he's just heard, then slides his hand between Midorima's thighs, his lubed fingers seeking the heat of the other boy's entrance. “Spread your legs a little bit more...yeah, like that.”

“Wait a second,” Midorima says, breathless and in a rush. He sits up just enough to fit his lips to Takao's in a brief kiss, then falls back into his previous position. “Okay. I'm ready.”

Takao unthinkingly flashes Midorima a toothy grin and sets to task. He recognizes what he's doing as pleasure rather than labor but he cares about his performance, he wants to make Midorima feel good, he wants to take this seriously.

“You have to tell me if it's too much.” He glances up at Midorima as he lines two shiny fingers up to Midorima's entrance and waits for his boyfriend's assent before he slowly works them into his body.

A sound pours past Midorima's lips that Takao's never heard him make before but it's void of discomfort so he continues pushing his digits deeper. Takao listens carefully to the sounds that Midorima's making, biting his lip as he stares at the space between Midorima's legs. His cock is flushed red and slightly curved, though not enough to keep the precome leaking from the tip from dribbling down the shaft.

Midorima moans and Takao groans in a chorus of too-much pleasure and anticipation. “You're so wet,” Takao manages as he drives his fingers further into Midorima.

Midorima whines and rocks down to meet Takao's slow-building thrusts, his hips angling downwards in a way that draws Takao as deep as physically possible. His cock pendulates with the movement and it takes every grain of Takao's control to keep from lunging forward and taking it down to the back of his throat. His mouth waters and his body aches for more than what's currently on offer but he wills himself to wait.

“Fuck, you're so hot. Inside and out. You're so fucking perfect that it doesn't even seem real.” Takao pumps his fingers in and out slowly, crooking his digits every so often as he read, and Midorima is keening so loudly that Takao's chest swells with pride. “You're so vocal, baby. I bet the people down the hall can hear you.” Takao turns his wrist noticeably, unconditionally driving into Midorima at a new angle. “It's like I'm already fucking you with all the noise you're making.”

Midorima bucks up against Takao's rhythm, his legs shaking and body strung tautly. Takao slows his pace, afraid that he's working Midorima too close to completion too fast. He scissors his fingers and carefully explores Midorima's body, paying rapt attention to what strings him into sound. After a moment, Takao stills his ministrations and Midorima all but whines at the loss of movement. Takao slides his free hand up Midorima's thigh and idly works at the tight knot of muscle beneath his palm. “Shh, baby. I'm just going to add another finger, okay?”

Midorima instantly relaxes and Takao spills more lube over his fingers before slipping the third digit into Midorima's body. He's met with less resistance this time, but he still practices caution as he begins to curl and grind his fingers into Midorima's wet heat.

Midorima rakes his nails over the bed covers before attempting to bundle the fabric into his fists. He gasps and whimpers and pleads without intention, and every sound shoots straight to Takao's cock. He begins working his fingers faster, so focused on the task at hand that he startles at the sound of Midorima's voice.

“I want... _please,_ ” he mumbles through little gasps of air.

“Are you sure you're ready? I feel like you should be looser,” is Takao's reply, shaky and splintered by awe.

“I'm sure. I've been practicing since...that night. If you use the appropriate amount of lube, I should be fine.”

Every muscle in Takao's body goes still and he's pretty sure that every bone beneath has melted down into its marrow within. “You're going to make me come on sight if you keep telling me these things.” Takao slowly removes his fingers and wipes the stain of Midorima's arousal on his thigh. He stretches over Midorima's leg and grabs one of the condom packets, tearing into it savagely. It takes him longer than he'd like to get the rubber sleeve rolled down his shaft but with the way he's burning up on the inside, a second could easily stretch into eternity.

Once prepared, Takao leans over Midorima to kiss him firmly. Midorima moans through it, his technique syrupy and two beats behind Takao's own. It imbues Takao with a sense of satisfaction, and he can't help but slip his tongue into Midorima's mouth to taste him. Midorima groans and there's so much impatience in the sound that Takao grabs his face, forcing his jaw open to lick possessively into his mouth and behind his teeth.

“It's the first time I've fingered you and you're already getting greedy,” Takao ribs. “What's to become of you after I've fucked you?”

“You won't ever find out if you don't get started,” Midorima says, a burst of confidence shining behind his eyes.

Takao raises an eyebrow and feels his mouth spread into a crooked smile. “Is that so? I want to make you feel good just as much as you want me to get inside of you but maybe I should make you wait a little bit.”

“Don't be a fool, Kazunari. There's no use in prolonging this.” Midorima pointedly glances at Takao's stiff length, his eyes dancing between light and dark before the shadows swamping his vision win out against the shine. “I know how much you want me.”

“I think I like this side of you,” Takao says, pressing a light kiss into the shallow dip above Midorima's collarbone. “It only took years to whittle you down to the kinky bastard I knew you were, but hey, better late than never, right?”

Takao leans back on his heels and retrieves the bottle of lube. “I should have given this little guy a name for how much we're getting to know each other.” This earns an amused snort from Midorima as he pops open the lid and squeezes an exorbitant amount of liquid into his palm. He wraps his hand around his cock, stroking the cool slick over himself until he feels confident that it's enough. Then, with what's left on his fingers, he coats Midorima's entrance as a sort of fail-safe.

“Okay, slide your legs up a bit,” Takao orders, sliding his dry hand up Midorima's calf and over the joint of his knee. “You can wrap your legs around me once I'm inside of you.” Takao lines himself up to Midorima's entrance, all the breath in his lungs leaving him at once when he fully grasps how close they are to finalizing what he's fantasized about for years. “Are you–”

“Yes,” Midorima interjects as he moves a hand to fit around the curve of Takao's shoulder. He lifts his legs a little higher, shivering when the head of Takao's cock brushes against him. “Please.”

Takao holds his breath as he gingerly begins working the head of his cock past the resistance of Midorima's sex. He clenches his jaw as he's met with tight heat, gripping and wet and so beyond his greatest expectations that he nearly loses sight of what's right ahead of him. “You're doing so good for me, baby. I'm...about halfway.”

Midorima digs his nails into Takao's shoulder before his arm loses against gravity and falls down against the duvet. Takao shifts his free hand up the bed, over the soft underside of Midorima's arm to tangle their fingers together. He's too afraid to remove his opposite hand from the base of his cock, almost as if he believes it's the only thing keeping him from slamming himself home. He opens his mouth to issue another push of encouragement but a moan from his chest trickles out of him instead.

He closes his eyes and moves like he's stuck in a dream; the floor beneath his feet keeps stretching longer and longer until the door at the end of the hallway is no longer in sight. It seems to take forever and a day but finally he gets through the mire and the molasses and the glue. His hand has fallen away from the base of his cock and he's bracing his grip at the prominent angle of Midorima's hip, slick fingers holding on for dear life as he bottoms out. “Oh, fuck, I'm—you feel so good.”

Midorima's face flushes and he flexes his fingers against the hand held against his own. “How...um...does it feel?”

Takao fights to keep his hips still because he wants to do this right but it's so hard to keep himself from diving headfirst into what his pulse is beating for. “You're so tight, and wet, and hot, like crazy hot. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a fever.” Midorima snorts a breath of laughter that makes Takao smile in response. He lifts their joined hands to his lips and kisses the softness of Midorima's skin until his body visibly relaxes a little. “Are you okay?”

“I'm—just give me a second.”

“Anything you need.” Takao circles his thumb over the jut of Midorima's hip and drags his gaze from the low of his sculpted abdomen to the rise and fall of his chest. “You're like a work of art.”

“Shut up, Takao,” Midorima says, his voice straining against the heat in his throat.

“I'm going to get that tattooed on me, or better yet, I'm going to get it on a welcome mat.” Takao circles his hips slowly and Midorima shudders as he looks at Takao through the dark weight of his long lashes. “If anyone asks me to explain our relationship, I can just point them right to the answer.”

“Takao, shut up,” Midorima urges, his timbre dropping an octave.

“Now see, that's different,” Takao teases. He ducks his head and slides his chest against the fine sheen of sweat sticking to Midorima's skin. “But I'm still not going to shut up.” He fits his lips to the petal-soft of Midorima's own and kisses him sweetly, tender and slow, an unsaid promise that serves as safety as much as it does affection.

Takao reaches between their bodies and takes Midorima's cock into his hand. He strokes him without direct intention, just enough to fill the shoes of distraction as he draws his hips back, hissing against Midorima's lips as he does. “I imagined a lot of things but I think this sort of got lost in translation. I never thought...”

“I know,” Midorima supplements, and the simple response bleeds an understanding Takao can _feel_ when he eases himself back home. Takao nods because he doesn't know what else to do, and when the cycle repeats, Midorima emits a gasp that hits Takao's ears like a filthy anecdote. It's downright salacious, but it doesn't stop there because with every shift of his hips, every drag of his palm against weighted arousal, Midorima releases a sound more obscene than the last.

Takao fights to push himself upright, untangling his fingers from Midorima's hand as he goes. He traps Midorima's hips in a bruising hold and slowly proceeds to move in an undulating motion that vacillates until he finally establishes a steady rhythm.

Midorima drags his legs a little closer to his chest, then hooks a leg around Takao's backside. It's binding, comforting somehow, and it's what Takao needs to diverge from the painstakingly cautious path he's practicing. Almost.

“You can move. I'm okay,” Midorima tells him, and that does it.

Takao shifts his position and he immediately knows he's doing something right by the litany of dry sobs that pour from Midorima's mouth like a deluge. He tips his head back against the pillows at the head of the bed and Takao feels his hips convulse, almost as if reaching out for his touch. Takao repeats the angle of the thrust and Midorima makes a strangled noise that ends on a ragged breath. He slams his hand down against the bed and twists the fabric in his grip, desperate and violent.

Takao sinks himself deeper, and his skin starts to prickle from the wet heat engulfing his cock and the jolts of electricity spiraling out across his skin. He's beginning to sweat and Midorima is flushing the most beautiful shade of red as he comes apart on Takao's cock; it's the reality of this situation that makes Takao pull Midorima's hips harder, his fingers digging bruises into his skin. He hastens his rhythm and bites down on his bottom lip so hard he can't be sure he isn't bleeding.

Midorima begins to chant Takao's name like a curse, a ghost of a whisper that catches on the damp of Takao's skin like the trace of a touch. It sounds like a symphony to his ears made all the more sublime by the artist's vulnerability. Takao's eyes threaten to close but he doesn't want to miss a single moment, he wants to _remember_ every detail _._ He wants to ingrain the memory behind his eyes for the rest of his life—green hair sticking to the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, smoldering eyes drenched in heat, lips damp with saliva and parted to allow for sharp breaths and incoherent pleas. Takao tries to memorize it all, the chords of tension, the flex of muscle, the _sounds—_ skin-on-skin, the drag of frenetic motion, the slide of friction made slick by arousal.

“Kazunari,” Midorima rasps, trembling.

“I've got you, baby.” Takao picks up his pace, the pulse he feels inside Midorima sparking like fire in his veins. He can hear static in his ears and he's pretty convinced that his brain has started to short-circuit. He grinds himself closer to Midorima, rocking their hips together as he digs the fingernails of his left hand into Midorima's skin. His right hand slides up Midorima's side and over the slight protrusion of his ribs to splay across his chest. He fucks into the boy beneath him like he would fuck into his fist, hitting Midorima's prostate on every down-thrust.

“Fuck, Shintarō, I don't think I'm gonna last much longer,” Takao husks, breath catching like dust in the wind.

“Kazunari...” Midorima purrs, and it sounds so seraphic and so blasphemous at the same time that Takao can't parse whether he should be praying or begging for forgiveness.

“Fuck, I want my name burning on your skin for days.” Takao slides the hand on Midorima's chest higher, fingers walking up his throat, over his chin, brushing his lips and the line of his nose, only to stop at the mess that's become his hair. He cards his fingers through the sweat-darkened strands and pulls. Midorima gasps and reaches out to grab the back of Takao's neck. He tugs Takao down, almost hard enough to throw off his momentum completely, and kisses him like the breath they're sharing is the only force keeping them alive. The movement and the cadence of Takao's thrusts have their teeth clicking together, once, twice, then they're kissing like it counts, hard and bruising, like a fight to the finish. Takao sucks Midorima's bottom lip into his mouth and bites down playfully before massaging their tongues together. He's distantly aware of the slick catching against the low of his belly, the physical need that's defining Midorima's desire in the viscous liquid leaking from his cock. He knows that they're both close, and when he pulls back to trace Midorima's lips with his tongue, breathing hot against his mouth, he begins to shake.

“I need to touch you,” Takao says, and it's more of a statement than a question but he waits for Midorima to accede to the idea before he touches him. But when Midorima nods in earnest, Takao's hand flies to his cock because he's never needed to see Midorima fall apart so badly until now.

“I love you so fucking much,” Takao tells him. “I've never wanted someone the way I've wanted you. I don't think it's possible that I ever could again. You're just so fucking perfect and I—o _h fuck_ —the way you feel around me is...” Takao cants his hips and he doesn't know how he didn't notice it until now, but he can _feel_ the way his cock is sliding against Midorima's inner walls.

“Kazunari...” Midorima scratches the back of Takao's neck, nails catching at the notch of his spine before raking neat lines over his shoulder-blade. Takao can feel Midorima tighten around him in pulses, perfectly in sync with the cock that's twitching against his palm. Takao strokes him faster and tries to match the rhythm of his hips to each upstroke as Midorima shudders beneath him.

“Come for me, baby.” Takao twists his wrist and drags his nails down the smooth plane of Midorima's chest. “I can feel how bad you want it, how bad you need it.”

A wet sound escapes Midorima's throat and Takao barely manages to tear his gaze away from Midorima's lips in time to witness the pinnacle of his capitulation. Midorima's stomach clenches, his hips stutter, and his body quakes before finally going limp against the supportive weight of the mattress. Takao watches Midorima spill himself to completion over his fingers in awe. He absentmindedly lifts his wet digits to his lips and licks the emission from his skin with a sense of gratification that pitches him over his own precipice and into rippling shock-waves. He bites down on his knuckles and shudders through his climax; his vision fades to black and white noise fills his ears as the fire pooling in the low of his belly dissolves into full-bodied pleasure.

After a moment of near-silence Midorima clears his throat, and Takao fears that maybe he's done something wrong because he can't recall how long he's been stranded in Nirvana. He meets Midorima's half-lidded gaze and loses himself in the way he's looking at him. He's seconds away from asking Midorima _something_ because he feels exposed and on display in a way that feels much too vulnerable for what they've just done together—but Midorima doesn't give him the chance.

“I love you, Kazunari. I'm _in love_ with you.”

Takao doesn't realize that he's crying until he makes to wipe away whatever is tickling his chin and his hand comes away wet. It's strange, in contrast to what's just transpired, but he's on cloud nine, flying so high that it's impossible not to catch himself on his heart's condensation.

Midorima reaches out to touch his cheek, just below where his eyes are suffused with tears, and above where his mouth is trembling. “Are you having regrets?”

Takao shakes his head and lets a light puff of laughter blow past his lips. “Of course not. That was the best fucking thing that's ever happened to me. I'm just...taking a sentimental journey I guess.” He laughs, a little louder this time. “That sounds awful. I'm gross, aren't I? No, I'm definitely gross. If you think less about me, I won't blame you.”

Midorima smiles and shakes his head. “I have my fair share of reasons to think less about you, but this isn't one of them.”

Takao nuzzles his cheek against Midorima's hand and it's starting to ache because he can't stop smiling but he doesn't think he's felt this level of happiness before. “You probably want me to move, yeah?”

Midorima's cheeks flush, high and rosy. “I'm one-hundred percent certain that I'm going to regret this later, but I'd like you to lie next to me for a little while.”

Takao bows his head in what he hopes passes as a nod because his head feels heavy and his thoughts are still playing catch-up to his body. He carefully moves and slides his softening member free from Midorima's body. His limbs serve as a counterbalance to his intention, and it takes more effort to reposition himself next to Midorima than he expects. His heart feels as weary as his body feels listless, but it's Midorima's bedraggled appearance that steals his focus.

“Hi,” Takao says softly when their eyes meet. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Midorima scoffs and reaches for Takao's hand, tangling their fingers together as he struggles to scoot himself closer to the naked structure of Takao's frame. “Shut up, Takao.”

“I'm still considering that welcome mat,” Takao jests. He leans forward and kisses Midorima on the lips, gentle and chaste. “Or maybe we can get it on a sign.”

Midorima's eyes are closed but he's smiling. Takao returns the gesture even though he knows Midorima can't see it and presses a kiss to the ridge of Midorima's knuckles. He tries to fight sleep because he's working on memorizing the things he missed before, when he was too caught up in the moment, punch-drunk and slap-happy—the things that can only be seen at his current juxtaposition; the light dusting of freckles across Midorima's nose, the small mole on his neck that's usually hidden by the shadow of his jawline, a small scar just below the center of his lips that's been made nearly invisible by time, the fingerprints and dried tears on his glasses. They're trivial details perhaps, but to Takao, they're important, like the consequential ground that leads him home.

He wonders how Midorima would feel if he knew that he was Takao's foundation, that the stars in his eyes were the lights that drove out the shadows when things got bad; that the bones buried beneath his skin were the beams that kept Takao from falling when he grew weak. For years, the blood in his veins was the heat that kept him warm at night, and the sound of his voice offered encouragement when his self-doubt became a cage. Takao wonders how many things will change come tomorrow. He thinks about a future together and how much importance a single word can carry when bridged against the impact of life and the generations to come. He thinks and he wonders and he dreams until sleep wins out against his determination and he trips into the grips of slumber, still holding Midorima's hand.

* * *

The next day starts during the early hours of the morning when Midorima rouses with a loud groan and promptly pokes Takao awake to blame him for not demanding that he take a shower before going to sleep. Following two arguments and one failed attempt at shower sex, they order breakfast and begin to pack their belongings. Midorima pales when he notices an agglomeration of dried fluids on the duvet, and he doesn't return to himself and normal function until Takao scrubs away the stains with a wet cloth.

They eat at a table in the living room, chairs pushed together so they can both revel in the impressive view that overlooks the city. Today paints a cloudy picture, hazy and dark, but beautiful nonetheless. Once every scrap of food has been cleared from their plates— _it turns out sex makes for a great exercise routine_ —Midorima utilizes the tea-making facilities. Two steaming beverages later, they watch the morning news and cuddle on the couch.

If it were up to Takao, they would repeat yesterday all over again, and not only for what's clear-cut but because he's finally reached a point in his life where he can accept himself in every respect. Even in all the ways he hadn't known needed acceptance before last night. Life, however, has a habit of going on no matter how much you might want to freeze it behind glass. So they grab their belongings and Midorima checks the bedside table for the fifth time before they leave behind a room Takao will never forget; not even when life trips him up by the laces.

They take a short elevator ride up to the 38th floor to check out. When the doors slide open, Takao scarcely recognizes the soft orange glow of the lobby and its sleek accents. He'd been so excited when they'd first arrived that his surroundings had blurred into an amorphous blob.

While waiting for Midorima to take care of their bill, Takao observes several modern art sculptures that he'd missed before. The glass facade of windows overlooking the skyline is spattered with water droplets and the sky has darkened remarkably since Takao last looked outside. He's running his hand down a cool chrome accent, hoping that they can beat the worst of the proximate weather when Midorima gently touches his arm.

“We're good to go.”

Takao starts and turns to face Midorima directly. “Oh, okay.” He thinks that there was something more he wanted to say, maybe a pun or some kind of pleasantry, but when he meets the summery shade of green that's trained on his face, he loses focus.

They make their way back to the elevator lobby and stand in comfortable silence as the machinery quietly glides into motion. Once inside, the compartment moves quickly but Takao goes for broke and plants a swift but passionate kiss on Midorima's lips before he has time to properly react. The elevator comes to a halt and opens to reveal a foreground antechamber, cast in colors reminiscent of the lobby. The view to the foyer is partially obstructed by decorative items, faux plants, and fellow guests. There's a large pillar at the end of the short hallway, blocking any windows that might exist on the other side of the open area, but it would take a complete loss of hearing to miss the sound of rain coming down in torrential sheets outside.

“Well, that kind of puts a damper on things,” Takao quips, starting down the hall with Midorima in tow. “Should we wait it out for a bit?”

“I brought an umbrella with me,” Midorima says, his long legs putting him ahead of Takao with little effort. “It's big enough for the two of us.”

“Why am I unsurprised? What else did you bring with you? I'm surprised you fit everything into that suitcase, to be honest. It's so _small_ ,” Takao ribs, his gaze fixed on the forenamed oversized luggage.

Midorima doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he wheels the ostentatious suitcase to an unoccupied stretch of wall and begins his search for the aforementioned umbrella. “Ah, here it is,” he says after a moment. He pulls the device into view, wielding it like a weapon as he pulls the suitcase zipper firmly back into place.

“You better gird up your loins, Shin-chan. It might be a short walk to the station but we're going to be swimming there if we don't get a move on.” Takao claps Midorima on the back and hastens his stride as they make their way toward the exit as a single unit.

As soon as the doors come into view, Midorima tempers his pace. He holds the umbrella out in front of him, slides the umbrella's runner up its shaft and into place, which stretches the material tight over its ribs with a resounding click.

Takao, whose eyes had been trained on the downpour that's taken claim to Chuo-dori, looks at Midorima with an expression of utter shock. “I can't believe you did that. Opening an umbrella inside equates to like...fifty years of bad luck.”

Midorima smiles and takes Takao by the hand. “I don't believe in that anymore.”

Takao follows Midorima's lead, disbelief still etched into his expression like an abstract design. “I have to hand it to you, Shin-chan. You just keep putting miles between the boy you used to be and the person you are now.”

“Is that a good thing?” Midorima asks, slanting his gaze to glimpse at Takao.

“Yeah. You grew up. You're still you, I don't mean it like that, but you've changed. It's...nice.” Takao stops in front of the exit and pretends to squint out into the street. “Hey, there's a black cat over there. Poor thing's getting drenched.”

“Where?” Midorima exclaims, his fingers tightening around Takao's own.

Takao smiles and squeezes Midorima's hand in a gesture that bespeaks his love for the other boy. “Then again, some things haven't changed at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! ♥


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